Ionic Resurgence: Book Two of The Doll Man Duology (Volume 2)

by Howard Hachey

  Kieffer flipped to the very last page of the book. Only two blank sheets remained.

  Looks like he has room for more…

  As he thought this, the pressure in the room suddenly dropped. It was as if Kieffer was inside a giant lung that just exhaled. All air shifted past him, taking his breath with it. And as soon as Kieffer felt the drop, he turned towards the door and started to stand. Halfway up his knees locked shut, gut lurched into his chest.

  There, with one hand curled around the knob of the partially open door, was Wayne.

  His eyes were wild; two hard dots suspended on his pale sweat-stained face. The first thing Kieffer noticed was that Wayne had no shoes on. Then, he understood.

  He snuck in knowing full well that I’d be snooping through his stuff. But how? How did he know??

  Just then, Wayne's hand left the door, letting it slowly latch shut. He moved with intentional slowness towards Kieffer, making almost no noise. The red notebook fell from Kieffer's hands as he jerked upright. Wayne stood toe-to-toe with him, neck bent down, face plugged into his. Kieffer had nowhere to hide. Wayne’s hard stare sparked against his own. He breathed a cloud of old coffee and cigarettes into Kieffer's face. Kieffer only stood comatose with fear.

  “Do you know?” Wayne asked, his words so low that they were almost inaudible. He was done playing games. The mystery ended now. No secrets. Kieffer heard the rough sandiness of Wayne's tongue scrape against the soft greyness of his tombstone teeth. “Do you know who I am??”

  Kieffer only thought for a second before his voice, barely a breath, whispered back.

  “Yes,” he said, “You’re… The Doll Man…”

  Chapter 7

  ?? ??, ????

  ...26:12:57:06...

  Locale II

  It has, but hasn’t, been.

  Never non-existent; They are an immortal shadow casted down from the birth of stars. Silent observers of our existence as other mass bodies lay in future graves. They watch all species die from behind the glass. The static. Our planets and galaxies nothing but gigantic spores resting against scattered clouds of colorful dust and gases.

  Black nothingness gives the illusion of boundaries; soft, dense walls so far away that they only get bigger, not closer, as you drift forward. No living creature of our dimension can survive long enough to reach it, but it’s there.

  They are there.

  The walls of our dimension (Locale I) have cracks. Always have. Always will. And, They know.

  Past the natural envelope of space, consciousness is merely a glint. A spark of light that burns out in an instant. Only one thing connects the two sides together: a thin stream of perpetual energy called Time. Trickling through the cracks, nothing can stop the leak. This cumulative river, it bleeds both ways. Flowing in all directions. All dimensions.

  They, as a higher awareness, or Supermind, if you will, exist outside the very body of Time. Outside the leaks.

  They can walk the shore (not on foot) and look at the long river of millennia wind its way off into boundless galaxies and gaseous butterfly shaped quasars. But also, They can dip their “hands” into the centric flow of those changing waters. In an endless succession of birth and death, They move the polished stones that line the bottom.

  They are an archaic presence. Stranded gods with broken powers. Castrated of humanity’s thread to the physical. The elemental.

  They precede and transcend all known logic. All known understanding.

  They know no physical realm. Not as we do. Neutrons, electrons, the most basic elements don’t exist in Locale II; therefore, new parts were made.

  By whom?

  By Them, of course.

  In a space where a single river flows against a black velvet backdrop, the need for escape is intense. The mass clouds of shifting dead eons, still thinking and feeling, never stray far from the river.

  It is where They eat; They live.

  And that’s where the similarities end. Some might say They are the originators of consciousness, or even experience it on a more intimate plane. Truth is, They didn’t make us and we didn’t make Them.

  The natural order has always been.

  Energy does not die, only transfers.

  When a layer of stone fades out of the river and ascends to a new Locale, other unwashed stones make way to the top.

  The river has no beginning or end. It is.

  Absent of a solid body, these nebulous specks of banded energy barely form a discernible shape against the void.

  Yet, one gaseous cloud can be seen at the river more than the others. This one carrying the weight of a species on its non-existent shoulders. Its hunger for control and, more importantly, fresh plasmid is never quenched. The jumbled memories bleached by the intense radiation of space are only kept alive by the direct intake of fresh Manna from the other side.

  Once a person lives out their natural life, the soul is past its sell-by date. Like a phantom chicken egg, the soul grows over the span of a lifetime and eventually hatches into a new form. Weightless and pure. Even those humans who die young, either by tragedy or poor luck, gain entry to the next step. But, in order for Them to collect, certain preparations must be made.

  The forced siphoning of plasmid before its natural ascent from Earth is common practice among Them, but not easily done. Its concentrated essence was the closest thing to natural release that They could get. No other element compared. But, much time must be spent at the river.

  So, as we live and die, build and erode, They search the winding waters of Time for that one stone; the one that bares the mark of old. With countless tendril eyes that crawl through Time, It looks.

  There, among the others, lay a crooked stone.

  The cloud reached through for it, splitting the waters, pulling the stone into its being.

  In a moment, It was absorbed into the stone. Absorbed back into the world from which It birthed.

  Through mortal eyes, a dim hallway could be seen. Lined with doors and greying pictures, They immediately recognized the physical location, but not the host. It was a similar fit to the one called Wayne King, but much younger. Purer. How was this possible?

  Searching the boy’s thoughts, It suddenly found the answer.

  He knows of Wayne. He knows of the Harvest.

  This host had a strong reluctance to Their touch. They could feel the boy’s mind trying to push away from their alien fingers as they pinched and prodded at his unguarded thoughts. Most minds caved to this, but some fought. This one, He Who Knows, was clearly a fighter.

  They could see that and much, much more.

  The boy knew Wayne for who he really was. What he was. With this inevitable clash of realities doomed to severe the most valuable of ties, They were forced to intervene. They didn’t want to risk losing Wayne again. Waynes were very hard to come by, but Their abilities to interfere were limited. It takes a special individual to do what he did and to keep doing it for so many years. But even Wayne couldn’t kill the boy without being noticed. Most occupants of Locale I just aren’t capable of such deceit. Without Wayne, it would take several eons to find another stone that bore the mark.

  … THE BOY’S STONE –

  Realizing what was found, They abruptly cut the connection. After an immeasurable string of thought, the cloud began to struggle with Kieffer’s stone. It was virtually impossible to keep the rock or to track its location in the raging waters for very long; the unknown physics and accelerated geography of the land prohibited such a thing. There was too much activity in the river to ensure its re-discovery. But, if Wayne carried out his end of the plan, then maybe a solid telekinetic connection could be made. Against the astronomical odds, They had done it before, and under the right circumstances, could very well do it again. Kieffer’s reluctance to Their omnipotent oversight would make this difficult, but not impossible. He could be tamed.

  Like Wayne, They would find the boy again. It was only a matter of Time.

  After many incomprehensible mo
ments, Wayne's stone was found along the nebula-crusted shoreline. In the glow of radiation, They held up the stones. The resemblance between the two was uncanny, with only one major difference between them.

  Wayne’s stone was much flatter, worn over from the constant flow and osmosis of Time. Other than that, both had a little crescent shaped chip dug out of one side. The Mark of Old. Now that They had Kieffer, Wayne’s deterioration no longer mattered. The wait for another Host was finally over.

  Acting on the reflexes of a million lost souls, the deserted God(s) of uninhabitable dimensions dropped Kieffer’s stone back into the water. Moving downstream, it rewound the hours of all known physicality. It had to go backwards to reach the Other. The Outdate.

  Wayne.

  Only then could They initiate the ritual. The Holy Transfer.

  For always and never, They held Wayne’s stone, cosmic fingers running the worn surface, and made the connection.

  Chapter 8

  April 11, 2006

  3:21 p.m.

  Hampden, Maine

  Wayne robotically went through the dance that had become his day-to-day routine. Shower. Shave. Dress. Eat. Pretend to go to work. After kissing Sharon goodbye, he’d start up the Beetle to let it thaw. That morning, though, he was impatient. Windshield still iced, Wayne drove into town, ordered one cup of black coffee at drive-thru and pulled into an empty parking spot. As per instructions, he sat and waited.

  It felt like months since They had come back, and only now in the silence of mid-afternoon traffic could he analyze the past few weeks with any amount of clarity. He couldn’t remember much; bits and pieces like handfuls of shredded newspaper. Really, he could only recant the events of this morning.

  He woke up earlier than usual. Feeling denser; lighter. Bigger and smaller at the same time. The air in the room was sweeter; dewier than he remembered. As if the carpet were woven strands of cattails and tulips; the walls a box of living bark. He could hear Sharon’s soft snores, the rise and fall of the sheets as her chest swelled and shrank. That’s when it hit him:

  There was no talking or hissing or cutting going on behind his eyes. Wayne’s regular senses were again his own.

  The fog had been lifted. To be sure he wasn’t dreaming, he gave himself a nice hard pinch on the tip of his dick.

  Stars, but no night.

  They left! he singularly cheered. Rushing out of bed, he blindly crossed the room. Not able to use a light without waking Sharon, Wayne yanked his pants and dress socks from his dresser and ducked into the bathroom. Out of his pajamas, he skipped to the shower, whistling softly under the pulsing jets of the high-pressure showerhead. He felt unusually good, clear-headed. The falling water had the same effect as a christening, washing off any remaining pollutants that he might have secreted. Anything and everything that They left behind. Drying himself, Wayne had never felt a towel so soft in his life. Taking his razor and shaving cream from the cabinet, he studied the face behind the foggy mirror. His smile so wide as he lathered that he had to wait to shave.

  On blast, his internal voice screamed, Now there! THAT’S the Wayne King we all know an–

  The transmission hit Wayne with such veracity that he physically doubled over, almost cracking his head off the iron spicket of the sink on the way down. Flat on his back—barely conscious—cold air fanned his naked body as Their words stamped off from his ears into oblivion:

  HE WHO KNOWS. FIND HIM. FIND SELF.

  Where?! Wayne cried with both mouths. Pruned hands fused to his face. Waking Sharon wouldn’t help. Too many emotions sprang to life at the same time. Fear of the unknown. Excitement at the opportunity of freedom. Crippling anxiety of the cost. Inward—projecting outward—he screamed, Who is He?!?!

  Silence.

  Helpless, Wayne laid there—a human puddle of skin against the shiny white teeth of linoleum. He had no reason to move. Foot falling asleep under his weight, a slow tingle spread up his body. A quivering ripple like spikey rubber bands being stretched inside his bones moved back and forth, head to toe. He blinked against the current—seeing half tile, half speckles and dots as his face pressed hard to the ground. The rising pain was enough to bring him up off the floor into a sitting position. Suddenly a picture—one from his own memory—popped into view.

  A single brick building with a brown and white sign. Round, fat pink and white lettering. In New England, this building is more recognizable than any church or lighthouse around. It is a beacon of capitalistic progress to every cold-blooded hillbilly along the coast. One easily recognized from hundreds of yahds away.

  A Dunkin Donuts.

  Crawling back to his feet, Wayne washed the smeared lather off his face and tried again. He stood facing the mirror, slapping his skin, asking repeatedly: What does it mean?? What does it mean?? What does it mean??

  For every question, there was a deafening answer:

  SIT. WAIT. SIT. WAIT. SIT. WAIT.

  Wayne braced himself against the noise, arms and legs stiff. In his dark corner he mumbled to no one just to hear himself speak.

  Okay, sorry. Yes. Okay, sorry. Yes. Okay, sorry…

  The chime of Sharon’s alarm clock broke this regressive spiral. Skin tight, feet grey and wrinkled, Wayne picked his towel off the floor and wrapped it around his waist. He listened through the door to the blat of her alarm clock, then heard creaking bed springs before the beeping was cut short. Never a morning person, Sharon was a heavy hitter when it came to the snooze button. Wayne knew he’d hear that same alarm at least one more time before he’d see her lurching towards the kitchen to set up her coffee press. He had fifteen minutes to get ready.

  It was imperative for him to concentrate. That initial excitement of his freedom was met by another feeling besides Fear and Anxiety. Jealousy. He couldn’t deny the tiny twinge of illogical rejection he felt at the idea of being replaced. He knew once the Harvest started to happen—wherever it happened—a hardcore fan or retired detective looking to get a book or movie contract would blindly put pieces together. Assuming the same ritual is required. Or would it vary from person to person? From Harvester to Harvester? Wayne didn’t know, but he did know one thing:

  Like cancer, the anti-hero never really dies. Only festers under the skin of the human psyche until regenerating back into society through newer cells.

  What if this new guy gets caught? Would he get credit for everything? Every murder? Every display? The whole fuckin shebang?!

  Wayne thought very hard about what They said.

  He who knows… who could that be?

  Then, he realized.

  He who knows… They want… NO. It can’t be…

  But, Wayne knew. It could only be one person.

  They wanted Kieffer.

  Wayne absolutely hated the idea. Loathed it in and out. He couldn’t help slamming his fists against the lip of the sink. That little turd?! The fuck are They thinking?! Put me out to pasture for a rotten, hairless cum-stain like him? Why?! What in the hell could Kieffer possibly have to offer?!

  Beyond angry, Wayne silently raged in front of the mirror; the faux skin of his foam face dripping wet clumps into the sink. His legacy—his Time— was being stolen. It was his to use, not Theirs. Wayne earned it fair and square. If anything, HE should be the one to decide. And he certainly wouldn’t’ve picked that rat-faced dweeb to be his protégé. He was smarter than that. Yeah, They gave him meaning—or at least something equivalent to—but what he gave Them was much more valuable.

  Rinsing his hands of excess foam, Wayne attempted to pace his thoughts. Taking deep breaths, counting backwards as he weighed these things. Through the celestial static and noise, he began whittling down the pros and cons. Ultimately he decided that, Kieffer or no Kieffer, stepping down was for the best. If it was the only way to get rid of Them—to get peace of mind again—then so be it. And the more he thought about it, the more he saw the silver lining They had woven in for him. The kid would be Their new slave, not filling his shoes as The Doll Man.
This replacement wasn’t about performance, it was about production. Wayne admitted that yes, he could see the benefit in swapping out. They were simply trading in an old model for a new one. But, you know how the saying goes: “They just don’t make ‘em like they used to.”

  I’m the best there ever was and ever will be, Wayne bitterly told himself in the mirror as the razor scraped across his neck. He’ll never accomplish what I did. Know what? You want the kid? You got it.

  So, Wayne sat at Dunkin Donuts. As instructed, he waited.

  For nearly seven hours, he did nothing but stare out his windshield vacantly watching the bald patch of land just across the street. A park. It was a big square island etched out of the thin break of woods that the main road of Hampden ran through. Not much of a park; it only had a couple of benches and a locally donated playground. He watched as dozens of people, young and old, walked out from the corners of his peripherals and onto the graveled square. Some played on the rusted swing sets and slides, others just occupied benches for a little while before going about their day.

  Wayne watched in obscure silence, his movements limited to pulling out his pack of Pall Malls and lighter. Through the glass the moving bodies came and went until finally, it happened.

  Leaning closer to the windshield, Wayne watched intently as a lone girl—maybe fourteen or fifteen years old, dressed head to toe in black with one side of her head shaved—walked through the park and sat down on the bench closest to the tree line; her back set against the road.

  Wayne eyed her through a thin curtain of smoke. Then, the curtain was gone. He was aware of his legs moving, cold feet stepping on slick pavement. Without realizing it, Wayne crossed the street and entered the park. From the back of his head the human part of him—or what was left—watched in shrunken terror. It had no lids to close its eyes, no hands to block its vision. All it could do was sit and watch.