SUMMATION

by Daniel Syverson

  As the mallet rose, so did the volume of the chant, increasing in tempo, urgency pouring from the robes as heavily as the palpable fear running with the perspiration off her body. Blood again began oozing from wrists and ankles, as well as dozens of other raw areas where her back and legs had ground against the rough-hewn altar, as she again unconsciously, then consciously strained against her bindings.

  He continued walking forward, her feet funneling him in, raising the mallet higher, now stretched entirely above and slightly behind his head. The chant reached a crescendo as the mallet fell, her scream mixing with their chants as if the final note in a grotesque opera.

  * * *

  She awoke in Hell.

  Demons moved purposefully around her, with flames around the periphery, the orange light flickering on forever. As her mind cleared, she realized that yes, she was in Hell, but one created in this reality. The demons were the same hooded specters surrounding her earlier from outside the ring of fire. The walls of Hell were the same rocks she had been among, still lit by the same fires, but, with the demons now inside the ring, the fires seemed to go on forever.

  Amazed that she had not been crushed by the mallet, she looked down at the focus of their attentions. The Demon-Star had been crushed by the mallet, not her. The stone mallet had shattered on impact, leaving pieces hardly recognizable among the fragments of the Star. Even a portion of the stone altar had broken off just beyond her right foot.

  There were several small wounds on her legs - new wounds, apparently from some of the stone shards as the mallet shattered. The Hooded Ones ignored her as they went about their business. Two of them were removing the hard, dark, rough fragments that had shattered on the impact of the behemoth hammer, tossing them aside. As they reached the center of the object, both demons slowed, and moved closer. All was still quiet except for the crackling of the flames. Not a word had been spoken, as far as she knew. The remaining Hooded Ones stood quietly around her, faceless, motionless, as if viewing a friend at a visitation.

  One of the two demons at her feet raised his hand, and stepped back, while the other began to carefully scrape out the very center of the Demon-Star, saving the scrapings in a shallow stone bowl. When complete, he had perhaps enough to hold in the palm of his hand. Carefully, he transferred this into a larger, deeper stone bowl.

  Without even looking at her, as if she was a basket on the shelf, the Hooded One who had raised his hand picked up a knife, and without hesitation cut a three-inch gash lengthwise along her left wrist. She screamed involuntarily, but there was not as much as a glance upward by the Hooded One. To her surprise, she realized that on top of all the terror, the raw wounds, the utter humiliation of her naked bondage, and the certain knowledge that this night was to be her last, the slash on her wrist was not that painful. She watched as her own blood drained into the bowl of dust.

  Apparently, there was enough blood in the bowl. The specter turned, and stepped back towards the foot of the altar. Another, one who had stood to the side the entire time, stepped forward, and carefully washed her arm, then tightly bound her wrist in a clean cloth.

  She almost laughed, despite her situation. Binding a cut, before being sacrificed. Did they fear her developing a fever before her death?

  Bowl-Man began to slowly mix the blood and star-dust, carefully mixing and pulverizing it, much as one of her alchemists would. Slowly, stirring, pressing, stirring, pressing...

  Bowl-Man stopped. Setting it down, he again picked up the knife, and stepped up onto the base of the altar, to her right, just above her stomach. Carefully, he held the knife, not in his fist, as if to stab, but along his hand, as if to slice a piece of her at dinner.

  Slowly, deliberately, he began a long, shallow cut.

  She felt the burn as the blade penetrated her skin. A red line followed the blade as it traced across her stomach once, twice, three times, then a fourth, and a fifth. Then, one final curved cut ran around the edge.

  A perfectly inverted five-pointed star, placed within a circle.

  Hooded Man number two, the one who had scraped the dust from the stone, handed the bowl back to Bowl-Man. He silently lifted, then held the bowl up high in both hands. She again heard the sound of the chanting, low and slow at first, gradually building. This time, though, there was no fevered pitch, just a steady, insistent, droning chant.

  The bowl was lowered. Slowly, it was tipped forward, and the gritty, crimson soup poured along the same lines the blade had already scored. The bowl was then brought to her lips, and tipped again, spilling into her mouth. She tried to turn her head, but a pair of strong, yet gentle, hands held her, gripped her. She could swallow, or drown. For a moment, it was a choice to consider, but then the moment was gone, and reflexively, she swallowed.

  Satisfied, Bowl-Man removed the stone chalice. She tried to spit out the remainder, but the warm, thick, syrup would not leave her mouth, nor would its coppery taste.

  The Hooded Ones all stepped back. Back, behind the flames again.

  All but one.

  Bowl Man tipped the vessel up himself, and he began to drink the deep, crimson liquid. In the firelight, the rivulets that ran down the side of the bowl and off his chin looked black. After several swallows, he set the bowl down, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  He moved to her feet. From where he stood, her legs invited him, and she was again aware of her nakedness. Slowly, he removed his robe, standing naked before her, finally revealing a human male, rather than the demon she had expected. He stood motionless, then raised his hands upward, tilting his head back as well. Again, she heard him murmur something, words she could not identify.

  He stopped, lowered his arms and gaze, now looking directly at her, his eyes burning into hers.

  * * *

  As he climbed on top of her, the chanting began yet again.

  Chapter 3

  Mushrooms

  "You want mushrooms on 'dem bagels?"

  The cook never turned around, directing his question to the wall behind the grill. He laughed, and shook his head. Something about it must have amused him.

  The man sat at the diner's old breakfast bar, holding his cup of coffee with both hands wrapped securely around, as if to absorb every calorie of heat before downing it. It seemed like a place he used to know, back when... back when... back what? He lost his train of thought.

  Doing a lot of that lately, he told himself.

  "You want mushrooms on 'dem bagels?" And another laugh.

  Not a funny laugh.

  He looked down at his coffee, then turned left, right, and then, spinning around on his swivel seat, looking all the way behind him. One other person, the only other living thing in there, a young girl, sitting at a booth, looking back at him. He turned back around, looking back down at the orange juice in his hands.

  Orange juice?

  "You want mushrooms on 'dem bagels?", a little louder now.

  He looked up at the cook. Unlike the traditional dirty white T-shirt and stained apron, he was dressed in blue jeans - not the washed out-light blue with white threads showing kind, but the old dark blue kind, and a dark colored - black? Charcoal? Hooded sweatshirt, almost blending into the deep tones of the kitchen and the dark-stained grill. A black, greasy grill.

  The grease ran down the wall in the heat, making its way back to the grill from whence it had started.

  No one answered. He looked around again, behind him, and the old man in the booth (old man?) looked back at him, saying nothing. He quickly turned back around, looking down at the milk in his hand.

  "YOU WANT MUSHROOMS WITH 'DEM BAGELS?" the cook demanded, even louder, still not turning. A little laugh, forced, more like an inside joke between himself and the man in his mirror. A little menacing. He was a big man, after all, at least from the back. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen his face yet.

  No answer. Puzzled, and not just a little concerned, the man turned again. No girl, no old man. Now, a dog sat in the seat, looking
at him. The dog opened its mouth and spoke.

  "He's beginning to make me anxious. How about you?"

  He turned quickly back around, looking down at the tomato juice in his hand. Looking up, the room was darkening. He glanced at the window. No, still bright outside. He looked back at the grill. The entire back of the grill was in motion, grease running down, then over, getting blacker, darker. The wall itself seemed to be moving, to be alive, grease oozing from its very pores. The man looked away.

  "YOU'RE GONNA GET SOME MUSHROOMS ON 'DEM BAGELS!"

  The man turned back and jumped - the cook was no more than three inches from his face, grinning. Grinning, like the cat with the canary. Or more like the Cheshire cat. For he couldn't see his face, although inches away. And the grin, if that was what it was, was darker still - an inky black crescent on a greasy black background, with a putrid stench emanating. And that laugh...

  He woke, and quickly sat up. He was covered in sweat, though the room was cool, some might even say cold. He was alone, as always. Mushrooms? A little disoriented for a moment - unfamiliar surroundings. Bagels? He got his bearings as his vision cleared.

  Not his first nightmare.

  No, they were pretty regular now. It was getting hard to get any sleep at all these days. Or should I say nights? No matter, same either way. He was almost down to cat-naps throughout the day.

  Slowly, he slid one, then both legs over the side of the bed, pausing.

  Time to get started again.

  Chapter 4

  Beloit

  August 23rd, 4:00 p.m.

  Tom McGarret was almost home. He and his wife - still hard to get that concept down, having been married only 2 days, 20 hours, and some minutes - were returning from a poor man's honeymoon in the Wisconsin Dells. The trip back home to Illinois was a short one - no more than a couple of hours. 1-90 is a quick drive, as long as you watch for the Wisconsin troopers, parked between the north and southbound lanes, low in the grass, like a cat waiting to pounce. He'd already been the mouse, and lost the better part of a week's pay a few years back (not much to begin with) for twelve miles over, so he watched his speed carefully here near the border, keeping it right at four miles over the limit- no more, no less.

  Being careful today wouldn't help.

  If Tom was the mouse, Bob Ellingston was the cat. He had been a trooper for twelve years. By this time, running radar near the Illinois border was kind of a game - would it be an Illinois resident on their way home, or an Illinois resident on his way up on vacation? Unless they were blatantly reckless, Wisconsin drivers pretty much got a pass. Besides, he thought, most Wisconsin drivers drove so slowly on the Interstate all he could issue them were parking citations.

  "Mom- Jodie's looking at me again!"

  "Jodie, just look out the window, and leave your sister alone. We're almost home. Can you both just sit there for ten - that's all - just ten more minutes? We'll be there by then." Bill Foster's voice was surprisingly reasonable considering this had been going on for the past hour and a half, ever since they left Noah's Ark in the Dells.

  He hadn't noticed that he had been following Tom McGarret all the way home from the Dells.

  He also didn't know he wouldn't be home in ten minutes.

  Gripping the wheel tighter, Hans Richter was looking ahead down the road, not at Bill Foster's bumper-sticker laden wagon, nor at Tom's car, nor even at the trooper. He was looking for a turnoff with a store. He had just missed the one in Beloit - tried to pass another car, and couldn't get back in the right lane before shooting past the turnoff.

  German by nationality, he was attending UW Madison. In fact, he had spent most of his eighteen years in the U.S., and, like the others around him, was familiar with the road. Unlike the others, though, his plates said Wisconsin, and he was on his way to Chicago. His headache was splitting - must be one of those migraines they're always talking about, he thought. His eyes hurt to open in the bright sunlight, but he did see a turnoff coming up in just a few miles, just over the Illinois border. He continued to drive with one hand, squeezing his head with the other.

  He felt sharp pains shooting throughout his head, and felt blackness cross his eyes, interspersed with short periods of clarity. He was beginning to become nauseated from the pain.

  His headache would get worse.

  Tom McGarret signaled left and started moving to the left lane around a semi, owned either by "DLS TRUCKING" or by "Wash Me" - it was hard to tell, though "Wash Me" was clearer.

  The trooper noticed the semi from across the highway, and the car passing it. Illinois plates, but within the limit. No prize there.

  Then, for no apparent reason, as if in slow motion, the back half of the semi started to sweep across the lanes, as if it were a hockey stick about to launch McGarret's car into the net. Tom caught the motion out of the corner of his eye, and tried to accelerate, to stay ahead of the truck's swinging trailer, but his car, too, almost simultaneously began the same motion, and lost its grip on the road.

  The trooper, never taking his eyes off the two vehicles, realized what was about to happen, and reached automatically for his radio, keying the handset as he brought it up to his mouth.

  "Dispatch, Baker Thirty-Two..." He stopped mid-sentence, with the mike's button still depressed, mouth still hanging open, as he saw the two vehicles begin to dance, literally. Both vehicles began a slow rotation around each other, both lifting up almost vertically, on end, as if both had begun climbing a steep, turning, invisible hill, headed straight up.

  Bill Foster saw McGarret's car, just ahead of him, begin sliding sideways, with the truck wrapping around behind him. Stepping on the brake, he looked for a safe haven, some direction to turn to avoid the inevitable accident ahead. He saw the trooper in the median, but knew he could avoid him. He turned the wheel to the left, gently, not wanting to lose control or go into a skid himself. Reflexively, he glanced in the rear view mirror, and saw several vehicles closing in.

  It was going to be close.

  He edged over, trying to get onto the shoulder, slowing before hitting the grass, but nothing happened. Puzzlement turned to panic as his car began to slide, to follow McGarret's into a slide. The car disregarded his frantic attempts to steer onto the median. Stomping on the brakes, he expected a long, screeching skid, but again, nothing. His full weight on the brakes, turning the wheel both left and right, it was as if the car was floating, totally out of contact with the ground.

  Which it was.

  Tom was the first to realize it, as his car was the first to nose up toward the sky. To his left, through the window, he saw the truck do likewise. A moan slowly escaped from his now very tight throat, constricted almost as tightly as his white knuckled hands on the wheel. A low moan, but enough to wake his young wife. Groggy, she looked up, seeing nothing but sky through the windshield. Quickly looking over at Tom, she saw the truck through the window, as she was pushed back into her seat. Her disorientation now complete, her arms flailed out, trying to get a grip, to keep from falling over the back of her seat into the rear of the vehicle. Unlike Tom's low moan, her screams could be heard clearly outside the car.

  If anyone had been listening.

  Bill saw Tom's car rise up ahead of him, beginning a spiral dance upwards along with the semi. Like Tom, his control of the wheel and brakes had long since been lost and he felt the station wagon, already slipping along, begin to rise, front end first as if it were a plane departing a runway. He heard both girls calling out in back.

  The girls felt the odd, skidding motion, and reached out to steady themselves.

  "Dad? DAD!!?" Both yelled out together, unable to see what was happening in front. Behind them, they saw the following driver pull his face forward, toward his windshield, and look up over the girls' vehicle, trying to see something high above them. Jodie looked at her sister, whose panicked look mirrored her own feeling. They both felt the car sliding, shifting sideways...

  They both sensed they were about to hit something. J
odie's sister clutched her shoulder harness with both hands, squeezing the nylon band with a death grip. Perhaps a poor choice of words. Jodie, who wasn't wearing one, reached out, stabilizing herself against the back window, her left arm hooked around the back of her seat, trying to see what was happening in front. Puzzled, she saw nothing through the front windshield or side windows, but felt the car tilting and lifting. Her arm, wrapped over the back of her seat, was all that kept her from falling backwards as the car nosed up. Both girls looked out the rear window, out to the other, no, DOWN to the other car. The younger Foster felt herself pressed against her seat belt as they saw themselves rising up, away from the ground, in a surrealistic view not unlike that of a rocket departing the Earth, rising and turning. Jodie looked back at her sister, now white with fear, speechless. Losing the grip of her left arm, Jodie fell against the rear window, and the tailgate glass gave way.

  The girls were still locked, eye to eye, when Jodie went through the crumbled glass, falling back towards the earth. Too stunned to scream, both girls reached for each other, a touching, if futile gesture, as she continued her fall.

  She would have fallen all the way down, but the Foster's car wasn't the last to be captured in this vortex. Another, possibly more, followed, and began climbing as well. Jodie's fall was broken as she crashed through the windshield of the car following.

  Unfortunately, in addition to breaking her fall, it broke her back and neck as well, and she died still not understanding why her car was in the air, leaving her behind. Her eyes remained open, still seeking her sister. A family now separated.