The Nightmare Frontier

by Stephen Mark Rainey

  “Nottt thisss tttime,” came Amos’s voice. “Yooou won’t tttake thisss from meee.”

  Outside the jungle of entwined cords became a whirling blur, then vanished like smoke in a fierce wind. The violet hue of the sky began to shift toward turquoise and then to emerald. A few seconds later, it swirled back to violet.

  “It’s already been…taken…from…you,” Copeland whispered. “You’ve lost.”

  Amos, engaged in his own struggle against the monstrous, unearthly forces, shook his head. “Nooo.”

  Copeland leaned forward and tried to crawl, but even that was beyond his power. The green stone lurched in his hands, as if to retreat from the Zuso Xhan Mat, but he hugged the thing to his chest, feeling its raw power seeping into his body, into his heart. Melting him from the inside out. A quick glance down, and he saw that, in the center of the brilliant jade fire, the stone’s heart had turned solid black.

  A spent ember; spent like his body.

  He lay on the filthy floor for inestimable ages, his lungs laboring for every breath of hot air, his head spinning, his eyes too heavy to hold open. This had been a battle between the Barrows and Major Martin all along, and he had brought Martin’s fight as far as he could. Now, at the last, he had come so close, only to falter beneath the searing forces of opposing dream worlds. Perhaps strangely, he felt no bitterness, no anger; just regret at being separated from Debra here at the end. Still, her chances of surviving much longer were not good, and her father might already be dead or dying. He hardly envied her, alone in a world turned alien and hostile, her inevitable death conceivably far worse than his own.

  If anything beyond this life existed, he thought, let it be nothing like the realms of dream now careening madly through his fading reality. If he was lucky, he would be reunited with Lynette, his mom and dad, Doug McAllister…all those he had loved and lost in his lifetime.

  Maybe Debra, all too soon.

  Something touched his shoulder, and he started. A brilliant, shifting blue and green sea surrounded him, and he could see nothing else, not even Amos. But then he heard a familiar voice, soft but insistent.

  Was he dreaming? Or perhaps dead?

  “Russ, it’s me. Give me the gem. You have to let go of it.”

  It was her!

  Gradually, her features took shape in the awry universe of light, her figure ghostly, insubstantial. But he felt her hands on his, solid and firm, prying the gemstone from his pain-locked fingers.

  “You made it,” he managed to whisper.

  “Only just,” she said. “Russ, let go of the thing. I’ve got to hurry.”

  He tried to relax his hands, but his muscles had little desire to obey his wishes. Finally, he felt her fingers close around the throbbing object and tug it from his own.

  Immediately, the vast sea of light dwindled to two separate, small but brilliant flares at opposite ends of Amos’s chamber. The old man stood framed against his window, which now revealed a horrifying backdrop: the oblong, crystalline head in the sky, the eyes of the face within it focused deliberately on the window, seeking the source of its unfathomable distress.

  Debra was now moving slowly toward Amos, brandishing the small, flaming globe like a crucifix before the devil. But the old man was oblivious, all his attention on the thing in the sky. Amid the constant rumble of thunder, a strange warbling sound crept to his ears, and Copeland realized that it was Amos, sobbing.

  Debra’s feet moved as if they were in quicksand, her body now subject to the same forces that had assailed him so relentlessly. But she was making definite progress, closing on Amos and his precious stone with almost superhuman determination. Copeland could feel, if not see, the electricity crackling between the two alien spheres. The blue glow of the Zuso Xhan Mat had diminished discernibly, and the rhythmic pulsating of the other had slowed and become erratic, like a heart in the grip of cardiac arrest.

  Just a few more steps and she would be there.

  Outside, something—a long black shadow—was creeping out of the sky toward the window.

  “Hurry,” he whispered, his heart picking up steam. “Go, Debra, go.”

  With a sudden crash, a portion of the wall around the window fell away, leaving a jagged opening from floor to ceiling, some eight feet wide. Outside, a new cluster of metallic ropes came sliding down from above, creeping into the opening and questing about like tentative feelers. One of them touched Amos’s legs and he cried out shrilly, either in surprise, pain, or both.

  Through the opening, Copeland could see, silhouetted against the chaotic, shadow-filled violet sky, the Lumera’s onyx tower. It was beginning to crumble.

  More of the metal fingers curled in and closed around Amos’s body. He let out a few hoarse barks of protest, then screeched as the barbs flayed his skin. It was only as the cords began to drag him toward the opening that Copeland realized what was happening.

  “Debra!” he croaked. “They’re trying to pull the blue one away from you!”

  Spurred on either by his cry or the realization that they stood to lose everything in a matter of seconds, Debra coiled her muscles and launched herself at the old man, heedless of the thorny tendrils entwining themselves around his frantically thrashing body. She collided with him, nearly losing her footing, staying upright only by gripping the gem in one hand and clutching one of the long barbs with the other. With a cry, she thrust her glowing stone toward the one in Amos’s desperately clenched hands, which the barbed cords had rendered immobile.

  As the two dreamstones made contact, the entire world seemed to draw a shocked breath.

  In the next instant—

  Debra fell away from the big man as if she had been kicked. She landed on her backside, throwing out her hands—now both empty—to break her fall.

  The metallic coils entrapping Amos melted away like wax beneath a flame, but he continued to scream and writhe as if his body were on fire. His hands—also empty—rose to his throat as if to pull away something throttling him. But there was nothing there.

  Outside, the bruised, purple and black sky brightened and turned cerulean blue, the dark, swirling shadows transitioning to white, gently floating cumulus clouds that caught the rays of a warm golden sun blazing overhead.

  The booming, inhuman aria softened, receding steadily into some unimaginable distance, and the last peals of thunder trailed away until the only sound left was the soft whisper of a gentle spring breeze.

  No longer weighed down by immeasurable forces, Copeland dragged himself to his feet and braced himself against the wall, taking long, deep breaths, barely able to believe he was still alive. He shuffled toward Debra, who propped herself on her elbows, her eyes still staring past Amos Barrow, locked on something beyond the gaping hole in the wall.

  The skeletal remains of Lumera’s tower still pierced the sky like a twisted, misshapen onyx sculpture—the last remaining trace of either Dream Frontier. As he watched, great pieces of the structure began cracking off and hurtling earthward, where they struck like black meteors, splashing earth and rock into the air, leaving huge, yawning craters.

  All in total silence. No deafening booms of impact, no groaning of tortured, overstressed stone.

  The tall spire slowly melted into the black stone framework, which then collapsed upon itself, throwing up huge clouds of gray dust that billowed into the sky and rolled toward the sun as if summoned by the hands of Helios. Still, no sound rose above the light breeze, and after a few seconds, the dust, the tower’s remains, the craters…all had disappeared without a trace.

  A few giant fireflies spun wildly in the air, spiraling together as if caught in a huge vortex, and then vanished, drawn back into the outer gulfs from which they sprang.

  The nightmare doors had closed.

  The old Earth had come home.

  Copeland had no idea how long he and Debra clung to each other in the corner of Amos’s devastated room. The old man had staggered a short distance toward the hallway door and then collapsed, bleed
ing profusely. Whether alive or dead, Copeland couldn’t guess and didn’t really care.

  Debra appeared to be asleep, so he carefully extricated himself from her arms, which prompted her to stir restlessly, but he did not wake her. Haltingly, he rose to his feet, testing his muscles, gauging how much movement he could withstand before the pain kicked in.

  Not much.

  In spite of their malodorous surroundings, the air wafting in from outside smelled fresh, purified, invigorating; and after a time, some life began to creep back into his limbs. His chest and stomach ached from being beaten, and his cheek felt as if it had split wide open, but no fresh blood appeared on his fingertips when he gingerly probed the wound. The shallower cut along his jaw was nothing, his nicked inner cheek merely an annoyance. Probably needed a tetanus shot, though; God knew where Joshua’s blade had been.

  His energy would return. His wounds would heal. Somehow he and Debra had both survived. But what about her father? He had anticipated his own death, but he had also predicted Copeland wouldn’t survive. Maybe the old man had gotten lucky. For Debra’s sake he hoped so.

  The sunlit world outside nearly blinded him with its lushness, its vivid spring colors. Its sheer aspect of normality. He had firmly believed he would never see anything like this ever again, and now it seemed too good to be true. The aromatic breeze charged his blood like tonic, and he longed to get away from this decrepit old house and the terrible memories it held for him. They had a long way to go to get back to town—assuming it had not been completely destroyed—but if he had to walk the whole way, then walk he would. First order of business was to get back to Major Martin.

  But for Debra’s father, none of this would have happened. But without him, none of them would have be alive now.

  As he reached down to wake Debra, a low, pained groan came from behind him, and he turned to see Amos stirring on the floor. Bereft of his gemstone and its accompanying power, he seemed little more than an obese, weak, cowardly fool who ought to be locked up for his own good—if he survived.

  Pitiful old bastard.

  Amos struggled to a sitting position and rubbed his eyes with his bloodstained, grotesquely fat hands. He slowly turned to look at Copeland, and as he did, his face contorted into a mask of pure terror and rage, his color going from pallid to purple. He clenched his eyes shut and began to scream, shrilly, ceaselessly, his vocal cords straining almost to the point of breaking. Then, leaning forward, he began to beat the floor with his fists, sending up filthy plumes of dust from the ratty carpet, splattering blood across the room, the force of the blows shaking the wooden walls.

  Jesus. He had gone stark, raving mad.

  Debra stirred, sighed softly, and opened her eyes, disturbed by Amos’s violent fit. She sat up and stared at the old man, her expression betraying disgust. Slowly, she stood, and as Copeland moved to take her in his arms, he suddenly halted, realizing that something about her had changed.

  They stood at arm’s length, each studying the other’s face. Copeland felt a sudden tremor in his gut, a little thrill of terror that all was still not exactly as it seemed.

  Debra’s eyes had changed from deep brown to bright, emerald green.

  “Russ,” she whispered, pointing to his face. “Oh, my God, your eyes. Your eyes.”

  Three Days Later

  Chapter 24

  “There is still no official count of fatalities in Silver Ridge, West Virginia, following what authorities term only as ‘an unprecedented, unknown catastrophe,’ but the number is estimated at well over a thousand. In this community of just under 10,000 people, the loss of life is staggering, and neither scientists nor local citizens have been able to offer any explanation for the events that literally isolated this town from the rest of the world for a period of three days.”

  Debra’s house felt cold and somber, enshrouded by the same deathly pall that had overtaken the town since its reversion to relative normality. Following their return from the Barrow house, Copeland had stayed with her, unable to bring himself to face the emptiness of Lynette’s home so soon after losing her. Eventually, he knew, he would need to settle her affairs, but that was the last thing on his mind while he and the rest of the world struggled to come to grips with what had happened here. There would be more affairs to settle in Silver Ridge than his mind could comprehend.

  “In addition to the terrible human tragedy, property damage in Silver Ridge has been estimated in the millions. Aerial photographic surveys reveal that roughly two-thirds of the structures in the affected area have been destroyed or damaged. But what has most baffled experts is the fact that, in numerous locations, the lay of the land has been altered significantly, resulting in the destruction or dislocation of many homes and other buildings. According to geologists, these alterations are not typical of any known seismic activity, and none has been detected in the vicinity during the past ten days.”

  The media had run story after story about the mysterious, impassable “chasm” that had completely encircled Silver Ridge, and while reporters, scientists, clergymen, and everyone’s little brother posed questions aplenty, not a soul had offered so much as a reasonable theory to explain the nightmarish events.

  And who could? Perhaps only certain inhabitants of shadowy lands halfway around the world, none of whom would likely ever learn of the tragedy suffered by this small Appalachian town. Probably for the best, Copeland thought. And God forbid that any more devices such as those Major Glenn Martin possessed should ever see the light of day.

  Amos Barrow had been found wandering some distance from his wrecked house, but no one dared approach him, for he had gone completely, violently insane; it had taken four members of the National Guard to subdue him and take him into protective custody. He died the next day without have spoken an intelligible word, so the news reports said. Some witnesses who knew him claimed that his eyes had not always been a brilliant, sapphire blue.

  “Russ?” Debra’s voice drifted down from her bedroom.

  He turned off the television and went to the foot of the stairs. “Yes? You all right?”

  “Wanted to make sure you were still here.”

  “I’m here.”

  He started up the stairs. Despite how prepared she thought she had been, Debra was having a difficult time accepting the loss of her father. Having once believed him already dead, only to find him alive, she had dared to hope against hope; but this time it was not to be, for sometime during the final conflict, he had apparently suffered a fatal coronary. And no trace of Elise Martin, either living or dead, had yet been found—a sad fact Debra had already anticipated. Her personal losses, along with the shock of all that had happened to the town, to everyone she cared about, had crushed her spirit, and Copeland knew that only time would restore it—assuming the damage was not irreparable.

  She was sitting in front of her dresser, gazing into the mirror. Since their return, she had spent far too much time there, staring deeply into the emerald crystals that she knew did not belong to her. She just wanted to understand, he thought, to learn how—or how deeply—her experiences had affected her. Changed her.

  Unlike her, he had been avoiding mirrors as if the image they reflected might burn out his eyes and sear his brain. He averted his gaze as he came up behind her, leaned down, and gently kissed her cheek.

  “You’re still planning to go back to Chicago?” she asked softly.

  “I have to,” he said. “But not for long. I’ve got to take care of my own business there. Then I’ll be back.”

  “That’s right. You told me.”

  “I wish you’d come with me.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t leave. Not after all this. I have to…help. So many people have lost so much.”

  “You need to heal first. We both do. Nobody else was as close to any of this as we were.”

  She nodded sullenly and continued staring at her reflection. He caught a glimpse of himself and, almost against his will, glanced at the blazing green jewels wh
ere his own gray-blue eyes ought to have been. He turned away quickly.

  During the heat of his ordeal, he had erected a veritable wall of numbness, of separation from himself, just to survive and maybe stay sane. After that wall finally crumbled, his grief over Lynette’s death came rushing back, dealing him a powerful, almost debilitating blow; but as with the physical torture he had suffered, he had rebounded quickly. So far, neither he nor Debra had spoken a word to any authorities, and if he had his way, he never would. What a horror life would become if others should learn what they knew—especially the hawks at the Department of Homeland Security. At best, he and Debra would probably be spirited away to some secret facility and endlessly tested, interrogated, scrutinized. Caged.

  No, he never intended to share his experiences with another living soul besides Debra.

  And he wanted to be able to share them with her forever.

  He had no clue what he was going to do from here. His life was in Chicago; there was nothing for him in Silver Ridge but her. And she would never be happy in the city.

  He almost laughed at himself. Happy. Neither of them would ever see life with their old eyes again, literally. Happy now meant looking out the window and seeing a clear blue sky instead of a violet, shadow-filled gulf. But sometimes the sky seemed little more than a thin, fragile mask, perhaps for a monstrous, crystalline face still watching them from…somewhere.

  The transformation of their irises, surely, was the merest tip of the iceberg. Debra’s hours in front of the mirror was her quest to find the heart of it. He wasn’t ready to do that—to look that deep inside.