The Dark at the End

by F. Paul Wilson

  How ironic, after all the dangers he'd survived across the millennia of his life, to die in a plane crash when he stood on the brink of his ultimate victory.

  He had been to China where he stood atop Minya Konka. The planet's largest nexus point is located there. He had stood naked within it, his feet resting upon a buried pillar, communing with the Otherness, preparing for the Change.

  For the time was near . . . close, so close he could taste it. So could the Otherness. It hovered, poised to reenter this world, slavering to engulf this reality.

  It knew of his plan and approved. No more surrogates, no more underlings doing his bidding. He would handle this entirely on his own, because he could act freely now, without fear of retribution from Glaeken.

  Glaeken . . . He shook his head with chagrin. He had spent the entire time since his last rebirth looking over his shoulder, wondering when Glaeken would strike. The man had fooled Rasalom before, lulled him into believing he had wearied of his role in the Conflict and retired from the field of battle. Rasalom had let down his guard and, as a result, had spent half a millennium languishing in a stone prison in a remote pass in the Transylvanian Alps.

  And when he'd thought he'd found a way free, Glaeken had shown up and slain him with that cursed sword.

  But now the sword was gone, as was its hilt, and Glaeken had been stripped of his immortality - aging since he'd slain Rasalom at the keep. He was now an impotent, doddering old man who could do nothing to stop the Change. He had his Heir working for him, but the Heir was no Glaeken. He carried not an iota of his predecessor's experience or cunning. He was no threat. After the Change, Rasalom would tear him into tiny screaming pieces, and make Glaeken watch. And then he would move onto his wife, and take even longer with her.

  How different things would be now had Rasalom known all this upon his rebirth. All that wasted time . . .

  But now he was poised to end this battle. All the pieces were in play. He merely had to wait for the proper alignment, and that wouldn't be long.

  He drank in the emotions oozing from the cattle around him. Normally an airport did little to ease his hunger. Too many of the cattle were headed for vacations, filled with pleasant anticipation about their destination - rest, relaxation, fun activities, good food, good drink, good sex. Occasionally he'd come across one in a near panic about flying, and that was a pleasing hors d'oeuvre, but he rarely found enough of them to qualify as even a snack.

  This evening was different. The air was redolent of anxiety over the weather and the safety of flying and whether or not their precious flight would be canceled. And even better: the crushing disappointment of those whose flights had already been canceled - especially the children. The young ones' emotions were so intense. Their joy was like a knife in his heart, but their anger, sadness, fear blended into a splendidly potent cocktail.

  But the emotions here, now, were nothing compared to what the Change would precipitate. Grief and fear would reign at first, but would devolve into hate and rage and violence as resources became scarce and the cattle gouged and maimed and killed for scraps of food and sips of water.

  He looked at the passing faces and smiled. Yes, after the Change these average humans will engage daily in actions they presently consider unthinkable. The fragile mental constructs the herds call civilization will crumble, their rational veneers will flake away to reveal the beast lurking just below the surface.

  Fear . . . fear was the gateway to debasement - of others, of the self - and debasement was ambrosia, the piece de resistance. Fear was the key to everything that empowered the Otherness and, consequently, Rasalom.

  Fear will rule as their mortal world is transformed, as the very rules of nature shift and twist into tortured parodies of everything they once relied upon. Their sun will go out, and in the ensuing nightworld, every shadow will hide the threat of agony, the very air will scorch their skin and scald their eyes, and they'll pray that every searing breath will be their last. But it will not. They'll live on and on, and the Otherness will feed and feed.

  As will I.

  For he would undergo his own Change - into a new form adapted to the new Earth . . . the Other Earth.

  When the Change was ready to begin, he would return to the summit of Minya Konka to be imbued with the seeds of his own Change.

  All that stood between him and that day was the Lady.

  But she would not be standing too much longer.

  He arrived at the baggage area but saw no sign of Georges. Had the snow slowed him? No excuse. He should have left earlier.

  He pulled out his phone. He'd shut it down during the flight and hadn't yet turned it back on. The display lit with the date and local time, plus a little envelope at the bottom. A message? As wonderful as these little devices were - how different the First Age wars might have turned out had these been available - he felt they had too many options. He did not like text messages, and apparently he had one.

  He toiled through the menu and discovered he had two, both sent while he was in flight. And both from Gilda. He knew she frequently texted her son. Perhaps she thought a text was the best way to leave a message while he was in the air.

  He opened the first:

  The child is ill. We must take him to hospital.

  He frowned. Ill? He did not like the sound of that. The child had become integral to his plans - delicate plans, easily thrown off. It wouldn't do for it to become seriously ill. But hadn't that doctor, that surgeon who had excised his tentacles - Heinze, wasn't it? Hadn't he been out to the house just yesterday and pronounced him in excellent health?

  Good thing the tentacles were gone. Dr. Landsman, who had delivered the child, had lobbied for the amputations, saying that if the child ever needed inpatient care, the tentacles would cause a tremendous stir - headlines in the tabloids, reporters, medical specialists, geneticists, TV camera crews. A circus.

  He now was glad he had listened.

  He glanced at the message again. No mention of which hospital. Perhaps in the second message. He noted it was sent almost three hours after the first.

  He opened it:

  He is very sick. They are admitting him. My phone does not work in hospital. Georges will fill you in when he picks you up. . . . very sick . . . not good at all. This could ruin everything.

  Still no mention of which hospital. Had they taken him someplace in the Hamptons or to the city? Probably the latter. Dr. Heinze would most likely want to be involved in his care.

  He tried calling Gilda but her voice mail came on immediately. Had she turned off her phone or was the hospital jamming it? He'd heard that some hospitals did that. Well, he would have to depend on Georges.

  Speaking of whom, where was he?

  He speed-dialed Georges's number but was shifted to his voice mail immediately too. Was he still at the hospital with Gilda? That was no excuse.

  He turned and saw his bag riding the carousel. He refused to walk over and pick it up. That was Georges's job.

  And Georges had better have a very good reason for not being here.

  SATURDAY Chapter 13

  Dark had fallen extra early due to the storm. Jack debated turning on the mansion's lights. Would Rasalom be more comfortable entering a lighted house? Most definitely. Jack had done his best to leave everything looking as close as possible to the way he had found it - exactly was not an option. Would the lights increase the chances of Rasalom picking up telltale signs of his handiwork? Certainly, but only incrementally.

  He decided in favor of lights, but only a few, judiciously chosen.

  He made his final walk-through. Everything looked good. Had this been the original plan, and had he had time, he would have photographed every area before starting work, to make sure he'd returned it to its original condition. This was why he hated to improvise.

  His phone rang. He checked the display: Weezy.

  "Everything okay?"

 
"Well, no. The roads are bad and getting worse, but I made it. "

  "Then what - ?"

  "This baby. I don't know what to do with him. How much - ?" A screech in the background. "Oh, God. He's awake. I gotta go. "

  The call ended. He closed his phone and checked the display: 6:35. He pulled out Georges's and Gilda's phones. He'd turned both off after sending the text messages. Now he turned on Gilda's for a quick look at the call history. Two missed calls in the past half hour, both from "Master. " He powered hers down again and turned on Georges's. Four calls from "One. " He resisted the impulse to listen to Rasalom's voice mails, which he assumed would ascend in irritation and anger as they progressed. Didn't want to risk Rasalom getting through. So he turned off that phone as well.

  Yes, sir . . . ol' Rasalom oughta be royally pissed by now.

  SATURDAY Chapter 14

  Where was that man?

  Rasalom could understand Gilda being incommunicado with the baby. But Georges . . . no. Possibilities, none of them good, cascaded through his mind: accident, arrest, death, something catastrophic with the child. While devastating to contemplate in relation to his plans, the last should not be a factor in Georges's absence.

  He made up his mind. The snow continued and road conditions were no doubt deteriorating. If he was to entertain any hope of returning to Nuckateague tonight - and he did not wish to stay in one of these dreary airport hotels - he would have to act now.

  He signaled to one of the loitering skycaps to remove his bag from the carousel. The man found him one of the limousines that cruised the arrival areas like sharks, and stowed the bag in the trunk while Rasalom seated himself on the leather upholstery.

  "Good evening, sir," the driver said, putting the car in gear and beginning to roll. "Where to?"

  "Nuckateague. "

  The driver braked. "Out past the Hamptons?"

  "Correct. Is there a problem?"

  "I'm afraid that's too far, sir. Especially in this weather. It's a long ride out and probably even longer back with no fare. "

  Rasalom had kept his wallet out after tipping the skycap. He'd anticipated this. The driver had probably expected to hear a Midtown or Westchester address. He pulled out five hundred-dollar bills and tossed them over the backrest onto the front seat.

  "Sufficient?"

  The man's eyes lit. "Yes, sir!"

  He was certain he could have bought him off with less, but didn't care to bargain with his sort. Over what? These pieces of paper that people chased after with such unseemly fervor? He had access to a virtually limitless supply, but so what? They lacked even the slightest intrinsic value and were leaking what little fiat value they still retained. After the Change they might be useful as toilet paper, but little else.

  "Proceed," he said. "But with caution. "

  SATURDAY Chapter 15

  The intercom buzzed and Weezy fairly ran to it. She jammed the talk button.

  "Gia?"

  "That would be me. "

  Oh, thank God, thank God, thank God! she thought as she hit the button to buzz her through the front door.

  "Seven-C. Come on up. "

  And please hurry.

  Once again she complimented herself on the simple brilliance of her solution to the problem of the baby: call Gia. Gia had firsthand baby experience - Vicky was proof of that. But she'd offered more than just advice, she'd volunteered to come over and give hands-on help.

  Weezy restrained herself from doing a Snoopy happy dance, but even if she'd given in to the urge, the piercing shriek that shot through the apartment at that moment would have brought it to a screeching halt.

  It originated in the spare bedroom she had turned into an office, but now served as a bedroom again - the baby's. She'd put him there because she didn't know what else to do with him. And she sure as hell didn't know how to stop those shrieks.

  She admitted she was frazzled. No, frazzled didn't quite cut it. How about at her wits' end?

  Nothing she did would stop his shrieking. She might have been able to stand the sound if it hadn't been so loud. Already her next-door neighbor had knocked on the door and asked if everything was all right. She'd have management calling if this went on all night.

  She paced her front room, waiting for Gia's knock. When it came she didn't even bother checking the peephole - something she never skipped. The door swung open to reveal Gia and Vicky, red-cheeked from the cold, in snow-sprinkled knit hats and puffy coats.

  "Come in! Come in!"

  "Hi, Weezy," Gia said, giving her a quick hug. "Good to see you again. "

  Weezy had roomed with Jack most of last summer into the fall. Another woman might have made it impossible, or at the very least, terribly awkward. But Gia and Jack had such trust and confidence and regard for each other, simultaneously deep and casual, that it never became an issue between them. Not surprising, considering what they'd weathered together.

  Weezy, on the other hand, couldn't deny that it had been tough on her at times, especially on certain lonely nights when she felt the need to snuggle up to a warm body, and the best friend from her past and now the best friend of her present was in the next room . . .

  "Hi, Weezy!" Vicky said with a grin. "Remember me?"

  Vicky . . . if Weezy ever had a daughter - and she didn't see that ever happening - she'd wish for one like Vicky.

  "Of course I do. " They hugged. "How could I ever forget - ?"

  Another shriek.

  Gia winced and stiffened. "What. . . ?"

  "That's the baby," Weezy said, taking her coat.

  "Is something wrong?"

  "I don't know. I don't think so. He's . . . different. "

  Gia nodded. "Jack told me about him back when he was looking for her mother. Something about genetics. But - "

  Another shriek.

  Vicky put her hands over her ears. She looked frightened.

  "How long has he been doing that?" Gia said.

  "Since I brought him in and he woke up. "

  "Is he - ?"

  A shriek.

  "I've fed him - or tried to, anyway - and changed him and held him and rocked him and. . . " Weezy was afraid she'd break down in tears of frustration. "Nothing works. I don't know what's wrong. He just stands there and screams. "

  "Stands? On the phone you said he was only two weeks old. He can't - "

  Another shriek.

  "He is. "

  Gia looked dubious as she began moving toward the spare room. "And you said you 'tried' to feed him?"

  "He sort of wrecks the nipples on the bottles. "

  "Wrecks?"

  Another shriek.

  "I'll show you in a minute. "

  As they stepped inside the room, Weezy found the baby right where she'd left him: Dressed in a diaper, standing in the crib, and holding on to the side rail. He went a little crazy at the sight of Gia and let out a series of back-to-back ear-splitting shrieks that went on and on. Both Weezy and Gia pressed their hands over their ears. And then -

  - the shrieks stopped as if somebody had turned an off switch.

  Weezy saw the child's wide-eyed stare directed past them. She turned to see what he found so interesting.

  Vicky had entered the room.

  Weezy looked back and forth between them. The baby seemed fascinated . . . couldn't take his eyes off her.

  "Vicky," she said. "Do me a favor . . . leave the room for a second, will you, please?"

  Looking confused, Vicky glanced at her mother.

  Gia nodded. "Go ahead, honey. "

  Vicky backed out and turned the corner. As soon as she was out of sight, the shrieks resumed.

  "Okay, come back in. "

  The baby immediately went silent at her return.

  "I think he likes you, Vicky," Weezy said.

  Vicky's wary look said she wasn't so crazy about that idea.

  As the baby stared at Vic
ky, and Vicky stared back, Gia stepped up to the crib and gave the child a closer look.

  "Back in Iowa," she said in a low voice, "when I was growing up, the ladies of Ottumwa used to have a name for little guys like this. They called them 'I'm-sorry' babies. "

  "What do you mean?"

  "The mother would be asked, 'Is this your baby?' When she said, 'Yes,' they'd think, I'm sorry. " She glanced at Weezy. "Tough crowd, that Ottumwa bunch. "

  Vicky stayed back, looking unsettled. The baby's stare seemed to bother her. "He scares me, Mom. "

  Gia reached out and stroked his stiff black hair. "He's just a baby, Vicky. And I think he's had a bad day. A very bad day. So we have to cut him a little slack, okay?"

  "But he looks so - "

  "Remember what we talked about? People can't help the looks they're born with, so we never make fun of them for that. We never hurt their feelings, right?"

  "I guess. " Vicky looked at Weezy. "What's his name?"

  "I . . . I don't know. " Gia's puzzled look spurred her on. "If Dawn ever came up with a name for him, she never told me. To tell the truth, I don't think she had one. "

  Gia frowned. "How could she not have a name for her own baby?"

  Weezy hesitated, unsure of how much Gia might want her to say in front of Vicky.

  "Well, the circumstances were unique. Dawn couldn't be sure her baby was even alive, so I got the impression she was afraid to name him until she found him and got him back. "

  "And did she?"

  Weezy's throat constricted. "Yes, poor kid. Briefly. Very briefly. "

  Gia was studying her. "You and Dawn were close?"

  "She . . . I was all she had. " A sob built. "I - "

  She couldn't speak. Gia stepped close and put her arms around her.

  That did it. The dam burst and Weezy lost it. All the grief, the anguish, the sense of loss she'd been holding in since she'd heard, since she'd seen Dawn's pale, lifeless body, broke loose and flooded from her. She clutched Gia, leaning against her as she sobbed on her shoulder like a child.

  It felt so good to let it go. The pressure of it . . . she'd been afraid she'd explode. She hadn't dared let go on the ride home - not with a sleeping baby in the backseat and the roads so awful. And once here, when he woke up and the screeching began, and she'd been trying to feed him and wash him and get him settled . . .