The Next God

by MB Mooney

  They screamed at Matt now, pointing at him. “It is you! You’re the darkness!” they cried again and again until he couldn’t take anymore, covering his ears with his hands, his folded arms as he knelt against his chest. The children looked up at the walls with terrified eyes where once innocence held them close.

  The walls of the hall started to bleed, dark, sticky redness dripping slowly at first, but eventually flowing down the walls all around them.

  The darkness and the blood never touched him.

  “You’ve killed us,” they said, calm now. “You’ve killed us,” again and again and again. Drowning in blood and covered by the darkness, everything went silent.

  “No!” he cried back at them, as if to call them out from the darkness and to save them from drowning, but it was too late.

  And he felt the failure.

  Matt awoke in pain. Not just an aching of it, but pure and total agony. His whole body was wracked in the thrall of a toughening, a hardening, as if every muscle constricted into a cramp. His teeth clenched and his eyes rolled back under their lids. As his heart raced, he tried to yell or scream for his mother, but all that escaped him was a moan, low and desperate. And just when he couldn’t take any more, when he thought the pain would get the better of him, it began to subside. His muscles slowly relaxed. His mouth opened wider for a better gulp of air. His fists unclenched and rested on the sheets at his side.

  Although his heart still pounded within his chest, his mind stepped a little further away from panic and instability. He moaned again, but this time a relieved sound rumbled in his chest. The sweat had soaked him again, he noticed as he began to sit up, but he wasn’t as cold as before, no shivering or shaking.

  Rubbing his face before swinging his short legs over the side of the bed, Matt made his way into the bathroom, turning on the light in that windowless space. He looked into the long mirror, leaning against the counter over the sink.

  “What’s happening to me?” he asked the peaked image he saw there.

  “What am I?”

  The small restaurant was really more like a glorified café. The long windows, decorated with wire-guided green vines laced with random leaves, presented an image of importance that the limited menu enhanced. He could see out into the clear and dark night sky. Their table within the restaurant was quaint and intimate, covered with a long, white tablecloth and a clear, glass top. The night winter sky created a deep backdrop to the steady flickering of candlelight in the middle of the table. Outside, the night was cold, but inside the warmth of the café brought an ambience of comfort to their first date.

  His first date.

  It was very foreign for him to see Vikki, delicate and beautiful, sitting across from him. He only saw the details of the café peripherally next to her long hair, golden here in the dim candlelight, and her sweet features, poised and polite as a lady should be. Distantly, he heard the sound of Stairway to Heaven being played on the radio in a very annoying “elevator music” fashion.

  “You know,” Matt said. “I don’t understand the whole concept of ‘elevator music.’”

  “Really?” she said, her sweet voice in delicate tones.

  “Yeah. You see, the people who enjoy the songs they play, generally don’t like this style of music, and the people who like this kind of music, usually won’t recognize the songs. It’s really kind of stupid.”

  She nodded and managed a smile. “Oh, I ... never really thought about it very much.”

  Matt nodded back at her, cursing himself for a failed attempt at humor.

  The waiter returned to take their order, and Matt did his best to keep a straight face. Their waiter, a very effeminate man, spoke with grand gestures, using his hands and eyebrows to punctuate every enthusiastic emotion. When Vikki ordered the special, something the waiter badgered them about for a long minute or two, he threw up his arms in a victorious gesture.

  “Yes!” he said, projecting his voice. “Tell the midgets to rope a cowboy, I’m coming home!” And with that, he turned and left them, promising to have their order as soon as it was out.

  “It looks like he’s been out for a while,” Matt said the moment he was sure the waiter was out of earshot.

  Vikki thought this was especially funny, and they both laughed together. Matt liked it when she laughed. He enjoyed seeing her smile and hearing the breath escape her lips when she giggled. It was a girlish laugh with a woman’s charm, almost as infectious as her smile, and he filed it away as one of his favorite sounds in the world.

  The laughter faded naturally, and the two of them sat in silence. Matt looked out the window once or twice, as if he could picture someone just outside peering in at him, but he dismissed it at once as his own paranoia, turning back to Vikki, who seemed suddenly thoughtful.

  “I ... see that you and Richard Albright have become good friends,” she said, folding her napkin in her lap.

  “Yeah, he’s a good guy,” Matt answered.

  She nodded.

  “Why?” Matt said. “You know him?”

  “Yeah,” she said, looking up at Matt with a sharp grin. “We’ve gone to school together since the first grade.”

  Matt’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Yeah. There’s only a handful of us who went to school together back then that are in the same high school now. But Richard and I were both one of them.”

  “Wow,” Matt said, his voice low. “That’s weird.”

  “Why do you say that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he shrugged, “it’s just that when I asked him about you, he seemed as if he didn’t know you that well.”

  “You asked him about me?”

  He knew the redness could be seen in his face. He could feel it. “Well, yeah, I thought he might know something about you, since you and I had just met, and I wanted to get to know you a little better ...” God, he was rambling, and he had to stop himself before the walls started closing in on him.

  She smiled, a little more sincere. “What did he say about me?”

  “He just blew it off like he does most everything else.”

  She nodded, looking away. “Yeah, I know.”

  His head tilted. “Were you guys close?”

  “We were good friends for a long time.”

  “What about now? You two still friends?”

  She shook her head. “No. We don’t talk too much anymore.”

  His next question was tentative; he held back a wince as he asked it. “What happened?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “Richard doesn’t have very many friends anymore. He’s kinda pushed them all away.”

  Matt waited for her to continue, his forehead creasing. He leaned in a little closer.

  She noticed his attention and interest and sighed before speaking again. “You see, about two, no …” she looked up as she thought, stirring the straw in her soda, “three years ago, Richard’s mother died. It was pretty hard on him. His father always drank a lot, anyway, but even he got worse after she died. Richard had to grow up a little faster than the rest of us. And then he just stopped.”

  Matt frowned at her. “Stopped what?”

  She pursed her lips. “Caring. The only thing that he kept on with was his artwork.”

  “He’s good at it.”

  “Yeah, well, he used to be good at school and sports and lots of things. He used to make straight A’s, play football, and he always did well.”

  Some things became a little clearer to Matt as he looked into her sad eyes, her sad expression as she spoke about Richard. How close had they been? Matt became a little jealous of Richard as he wondered what it would be like to have a history with someone as wonderful as she. “I never knew,” he said.

  “Well, he’ll probably hate me a little more for telling you all of this.”

  “Hate you? How could anyone ...” And he stopped himself before the final blow, but it had been too late.

  She smiled at him, amused. “That’s very sweet of you to s
ay. But he will, believe me.”

  He caught himself looking out of the window again, peering at it like he would see a face staring back at him, but nothing was there.

  “Enough about Richard,” she said, bringing his attention back to her. “Why don’t you tell me about you?”

  Matt chuckled. “What’s to tell? I’m pretty boring.”

  “Oh, come on, you’ve got to have at least one or two stories about old girlfriends.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Stories?”

  “Old girlfriends.”

  This time Vikki’s eyebrows took to rising, and she rested on her elbows, leaning in close to Matt. “You mean, you’ve never had a girlfriend?” She said it with hesitation, as if she were trying not to insult him.

  “Nope. And you wanna hear something else that’s funny?” He leaned back now, crossing his arms defensively across his chest, his chin pointed innocently down towards the floor. “This is my first date.”

  Her eyes squinted, a long pause before she spoke again. “Your first date,” she repeated, like she had trouble believing it. “But I don’t understand. You’re so ...”

  “So what?”

  “Cute.” And the amazing thing was, she said it without being embarrassed at all. “And a nice guy. How many girls have you asked?”

  Matt grinned at her. “You’re the first.”

  “But ... why me?”

  “What do you mean?” He wanted to tell her the depth to which he liked her, admired her every feature, but he didn’t have the courage.

  “There must have been others, other girls you wanted to ask out.”

  “Sure.”

  “So why not any of them? Why me?”

  He shrugged. “I knew you’d say yes.”

  They ate their meal in silence, speaking a little more to each other as they left the restaurant and caught a movie. Then they sat through the movie without a word. Matt spent the whole of it wrapped in nervousness, wondering if he had told her too much, been too open with her about what little past experience he possessed. He drove her home and walked her to her door. She didn’t look at him on the way, and as they reached the landing to the front porch, Matt prepared himself to just say goodnight and walk back to his car. Maybe he would be lucky and get a handshake.

  She stopped just before the door and turned to face him. Matt smiled at her, looking into her eyes.

  Reaching up behind his head, she pulled him towards her and pressed her lips against his in one grand motion. Matt’s lips firmed against the strength of her, and it was over before he realized he had forgotten to close his eyes. It was his first kiss, after all.

  “You waited too long to go out with girls, Matt.” Her eyes brightened. “You’re a good date.”

  “I am?”

  She giggled. “Yeah. I hope we get to do this again sometime.”

  “Sure.”

  “Goodnight.” She turned and started inside, still smiling.

  “Goodnight.”

  And she was gone.

  Matt couldn’t move. His first date and first kiss all in one night. Vikki was right, he waited much too long to do this. His body seemed a little lighter as he somehow made it down the stairs toward his car. He drove home a little dizzy, wondering if he would get pulled over from swerving. It took a while to sink in, the kiss, the whole thing, the way she said she would like to do it again, as if she actually meant it.

  And as he pulled the covers over himself that night, he wondered if he would dream of her or something else. He hoped he would dream of her.

  He prayed he wouldn’t dream at all.

  Chapter 10

  The entry from the street was a narrow door between a shoe store and a Thai restaurant in downtown Atlanta. Shade didn’t much like the Thai food. He was a more collard greens and chicken type of guy, but he had eaten a lot worse than Thai food in his life, purely out of necessity. He scanned the area nearby before touching the door. Just after dark, the city was lit by weak yellow streetlights and old backlit signs of stores and small markets. Although he didn’t have a reason to worry, due diligence was a habit Shade cherished more than anything. It had saved his life more than once.

  Wearing his favorite gray pinstripe suit and white T-shirt, he jiggled the key in the old door, and it opened for him. He made his way up the narrow staircase to the small apartment above the Thai place, the familiar smell of Asian delicacies penetrating the floor from below. Shade used another key to open the door to the office, seeing at once that Mr. Smith wasn’t there.

  Shade thought this curious. Every time he had been summoned to one of the offices by his boss, Mr. Smith smiled at him from his desk in the room down the hall. The area that had been meant for a living room lay before him as a type of reception area, bathed in simple furniture in dark colors on the hardwood floor. Walking down the hall and into the office beyond, his eyes roamed around him, noticing every detail, and Shade could see no signs of foul play or intrusion. Everything was in its place as it should be, no reason to be so nervous. But where could the man be?

  He could feel the heat from the computer in front of him, hear the high-pitched rumbling. The computer was on. This was not particularly strange, but Shade thought it out of character for Mr. Smith to leave something unattended and available, especially to someone with Shade’s background.

  As he made his way around the desk, the voice inside his head told him not to do it, to just sit down at a chair in front of the desk or sit in the other room and wait. But Shade didn’t listen to this voice. He sat down behind the desk. The large monitor showed an old-school screen saver, moving stars on a black sky, rushing past him on the thirty-five inch screen. Shade put his hand on the mouse, moving it ever so slightly, and the stars and the black sky vanished, giving him a view of what Mr. Smith had been working on.

  Now, computers were something of a mystery to Shade, still, but he had picked up enough here and there doing work over the past few years to understand the basics. He had heard the term “real time” once or twice, still a little uncertain what exactly it meant, but he could browse Internet sites and do whatever research necessary to do his job.

  Mr. Smith was still connected to something. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but he could tell it was some type of online financial program, an extensive spreadsheet with the numbers of banks, account numbers, and amounts of capital in these accounts. Just quickly skimming the screen before him, Shade added a few numbers from banks around the world, Switzerland, Hong Kong, Tokyo, London, New York, Los Angeles, Atlanta, Paris.

  Rome.

  And as Shade looked at the numbers, eyeing the endless zeros in twenty or so accounts, one or two in the name of Robert Smith, one or two in other such names as William Jones or John Johnson, he slowly realized something.

  He was getting screwed.

  Or maybe screwed up the ass was a better term, he wasn’t sure. There must be billions of dollars in these accounts, and this was just the first screen of what appeared to be a few more. At the bottom of the screen, a bar gave you information about the file, and this seemed to be page one of seven. “Shit,” he said aloud without thinking.

  What is Mr. Smith up to? he asked himself.

  That’s when he heard his boss walking up the stairs.

  He could recognize the short steps, quicker than a taller man’s would be, one at a time, evenly and methodically, as Mr. Smith walked, as if he had walked for a million years, and it had become a thoughtless, mechanical art.

  Making sure that he didn’t touch anything, Shade practically leapt from the chair behind the desk, pushing it in a bit like he remembered it had been in the first place, and moved around the desk to sit in one of the plush chairs in front of Mr. Smith’s desk. Then he prayed for time.

  He heard Mr. Smith work the lock to the door of the apartment, even though Shade didn’t remember especially locking it when he came up, and Mr. Smith walked in the door.

  “Shade. You are here,” he heard th
e voice from behind him as Mr. Smith walked down the hall, that droning, perfect step nearing him in the office. Shade cast his gaze around the room, and he almost cursed.

  The screen was still on, throwing a light blue haze against the back of Mr. Smith’s leather chair. Shade felt the need to fidget, to bounce his knee to some unknown rhythm, but he controlled himself.

  “Yeah, I’ve been waiting for you,” Shade said, almost a little too loud; was it only his own nervousness that gave his voice that twinge of anxiety? “I got here just a few minutes ago.”

  “Good.” Mr. Smith was standing beside him now, holding a newspaper in his hand, the smell of ink and the gray paper filling the air beside him.

  Just don’t notice the screen, Shade thought.

  “I apologize for my tardiness. I have a job for you.”

  Shade watched as Mr. Smith began to walk around his desk, still gazing intently at the paper in his hands.

  “What would that be?” Shade asked.

  And just as Mr. Smith rounded the desk, the back of the leather chair behind the desk faded from a dark blue hue to black once again. Shade wanted to whoop in victory but kept a straight face, intent on Mr. Smith’s wishes.

  Mr. Smith threw the newspaper down on the desk beside the computer in the direction of Shade, and Shade could see the headline very clearly: Serial Killer Strikes Again: FBI confident about leads.

  “Bring me the Postman,” Mr. Smith said.

  “Who?”

  Mr. Smith glanced at him with disapproval. “Do you not read the news, my boy? The Postman is the media name of a certain serial killer here in Atlanta. A very appropriate one, I might add, and timely. But do not concern yourself with this, Mr. Shade. I just need you to bring me this man.”

  Shade inwardly bristled at “my boy.”

  “You want me to bring you a serial killer?” Shade picked up the paper, the Atlanta Journal and Constitution, and began to skim the article, complete with a picture of a wasted storage facility, burned to the ground.

  Mr. Smith sat down in his chair, leaned back and folded his hands in front of his face with his elbows resting on the leather arms. His hands were long and thin, abnormally so for someone as short as he.