Terminal City: Book One in the Terminal City Saga

by Trevor Melanson

  Unfortunately for Mr. Huxley, he realized too late what his captive was doing, perhaps because he’d been facing the back of his head. In the same moment Mason turned around, chanting, eyes blazing crimson, the burning sensation struck Mr. Huxley’s hand. “Shit!” He dropped his pistol.

  Mason wasted no time. He took a leaping swing at his disarmed captor, pounding Mr. Huxley’s ear. The inquisitor stumbled backward, one hand cupping his new bruise, but not for long; he dived for his gun, which Mason tried to kick away, to no avail (he’d never been very good at sports). Shit. Mason ran as Mr. Huxley armed himself again; by the time he was able to take aim, the younger man was halfway up the stairs.

  Mason didn’t want to run, but he also didn’t want to get shot. He went out the basement door, closing it behind him— anything for an extra second. He didn’t know where to run, so he flew into the kitchen and armed himself with a sharp steak knife. I don’t suppose this will deflect bullets.

  Mr. Huxley was up the stairs and on his way; Mason could hear his clunky footsteps. “Damn it.” Mason was shaking and sweating. Mr. Huxley appeared around the corner, gun held out. Mason dove from the kitchen, dropping his knife. A bullet splintered the doorframe a foot from him. Guns were louder in real life than in movies, thought Mason, scrambling to his feet.

  He bolted for the front door. As he slammed it shut behind him — cling! — a bullet indented its metal facade. He tripped down the wooden porch steps before quickly picking himself back up, desperately like a drowning man, his knees burning and shaking. He ran down the driveway, his enemy emerging from the yellow-lit doorframe behind him. Mason dived through a line of hedges, out of view, and then kept his head down.

  As he sprinted across his neighbors’ lawns, discovering just how quickly his legs could move him, Mason wondered where he should run. To other people, perhaps, where he would be safer? Or away from them— somewhere dark, somewhere he could kill the man who had killed Lester. In the end, Mason picked fight over flight and headed toward the forest.

  He wasn’t just some bystander, after all— he was a fucking necromancer.

  If he hadn’t been faster than Mr. Huxley, who was running behind him, Mason might have been dead already. But his heart was still beating, and quickly, as the forest came into view. He bolted into the brush, beneath a high canopy of evergreens, where the blackness of night became all but all-consuming. Mr. Huxley quickly lost sight of him.

  Mason tripped again, this time over an exposed root, landing elbow-first in the dirt. “God-fucking-damnit.” He’d cut himself, or at least it felt like a cut; he didn’t have time to deal with blood. Mason could hear footsteps kicking through the foliage not far from him. He picked himself up and ducked behind a large tree stump. Through a screen of branches and blackness, he saw Mr. Huxley pushing forward, careful with each step. He was maybe twenty feet away, but he hadn’t yet seen Mason, who still had that advantage— but how to use it?

  He tried casting the same spell again — tried to burn Mr. Huxley — but it was too difficult with a moving target at this distance. He’d have to take him out the old-fashioned way, somehow without getting shot. He scanned the dirt near his feet for large rocks and found a jagged stone about the size of a baseball. Now came the hard part: not missing. He bided his time, knowing it was all over if he missed. He waited until Mr. Huxley was a bit closer. Once he was maybe ten feet away, Mason arched his back and focused on Mr. Huxley, aiming with his good eye at the back of his target’s skull. Figuring this was the best shot he’d get, Mason flung his rock.

  For the second time that night, Mason hit Mr. Huxley square in the ear. “Gah!” Mr. Huxley fell to one knee, his gun-hand cupped over his bleeding ear. Mason charged and pummeled him like a football player. The two men rolled like logs, the pistol flying from Mr. Huxley’s hand. Quickly, Mason pinned his enemy down with both knees and punched his nose. It hurt Mason’s hand more than he’d thought it would, but he punched again, and then once more. This was life or death, after all. The fourth time, Mr. Huxley grabbed Mason’s wrist and — with every ounce of adrenaline he had — pushed Mason off him.

  Mr. Huxley stood up before Mason could pin him down again. “You little shit.” He spat out blood. Mason stood up too. Now they were eye-to-eye. Mr. Huxley scanned the ground for his gun and found it five feet away, closer to him than it was to Mason, but only barely. Mason saw him see it, and Mr. Huxley saw that in turn. Both men jumped for the pistol, bumping shoulder-to-shoulder, but Mr. Huxley’s arms were longer. Desperately, Mason made one final grasp for the gun now in Mr. Huxley’s hand, but it flew from him like an opposing magnet. Mason fell onto his bloodied forearms— for one second too long.

  The shot rang through the forest like a sin on nature. The bullet had gone through Mason’s stomach. He tried to get up, in case reality had been wrong, but vertigo got the better of him. He collapsed onto his face instead. Mr. Huxley was now back on his feet, six feet over Mason. It was all the distance in the world.

  This was it. He was going to die.

  Mason hoped it was a dream. It was all he could do at this point. But both men knew it wasn’t.

  “Who are you?” growled Mr. Huxley. “What’s your name?”

  Mason didn’t answer. He didn’t want to and couldn’t anyway, too dizzy and too hurt.

  Once it became clear that Mason wasn’t going to say anything, Mr. Huxley answered for him: “I know who you are,” he said. “A necromancer. Nothing else matters.” With that, he lifted his gun once more and put a bullet through Mason’s heart.

  This really was it.

  Mason didn’t feel it, the second bullet— only its vibration. Instead, he felt hot and cold at the same time. And then he couldn’t move. And then he couldn’t breathe. And then, suddenly, none of it mattered anymore. And then Mason felt nothing.

  The white light of death shone for an immeasurable stretch of time — the last hurrah of a brain shutting down — gradually growing dimmer, flickering like that light bulb in the basement.

  Flickering until it went out completely.

  Chapter 14

  The Province of Massachusetts Bay, 1695:

  The path was framed in blooming hardwoods. In their midst walked a tall young man with tousled brown hair and a leather bag slung over his shoulder. His name was Rowland. He was nineteen and now motherless.

  She’d died a month ago, his mom, taken by a sudden illness. He’d done all he could — he really had — but that didn’t account for much. Anyhow, she was dead. That’s all that mattered now, and it meant he was on his own.

  Streams of sunlight decorated the road ahead of him. The air was warm, finally, after a week-long stretch of wind and rain. Spring had arrived. It was certainly nice— if not warm enough to melt the cold that coursed through him.

  “Rowland.”

  At first, he thought it was the wind or his mind playing a trick. Then he heard his name again.

  “Rowland.”

  This time, the voice came clearly from behind. Rowland turned around and saw a slender man standing in the middle of the road— a man he’d met only once before. Rowland couldn’t remember his name. The man approached him, taking his time, and then, when they were nose-to-nose, smiled before he spoke.

  “Hello, Rowland,” he said in a very Irish accent. His voice was soft and kind, as were his eyes, but there was an undeniable strangeness about him. He was equal parts calming and off-putting. The last time they’d met, Rowland had wavered between doubting everything he said and trusting him completely. What was his name again?

  “Uilliam,” he said, as if having read Rowland’s mind. “My name is Uilliam.”

  “Right,” replied Rowland. “I remember now.”

  “I heard about your mother.” The smile flew from Uilliam’s handsome face. “I’m so sorry, Rowland. I cannot imagine how you must feel. If there is anything I can do, anything at all, you n
eed just ask.”

  Rowland nodded. “Thanks.” Sympathy made him uncomfortable, as did generosity— though he still wasn’t convinced of this man’s sincerity. But perhaps that was Rowland’s problem. Perhaps he needed to start trusting people.

  “I bet you feel quite lost right now,” said Uilliam.

  Rowland shrugged. Uilliam was right, of course. He felt completely lost. He didn’t even know where he was going, let alone how to get there. He was just… walking. Just staying alive.

  “Where are you headed, Rowland?”

  Rowland answered honestly: “Nowhere in particular. East, I guess. Maybe to the ocean.”

  “I’m headed east too.” Uilliam gazed off in its direction. “For the time being, why don’t we walk together?”

  Rowland shrugged. “Sure.” He felt cornered into the decision, but it had been a while since he’d had company. Maybe it would be nice to talk to someone. Lonely minds lose perspective: that was something his mom used to say. And so they began walking together, side-by-side at a leisurely pace, a soft breeze against their backs.

  “There’s a town about, oh, ten or eleven hours from here,” said Uilliam. “Georgetown. Ever been?”

  “Just once,” replied Rowland, “when I was young.”

  Uilliam smiled. “You’re still young, Rowland.”

  * * *

  It was dark when they arrived in Georgetown. The town brought with it a sigh of relief; Rowland’s feet were killing him, but he didn’t want to complain. After all, Uilliam seemed so unbothered. Whenever he’d asked if Rowland wanted to take a break — it had been a near ten-hour walk — the younger man had replied, “I’m fine.” Rowland hadn’t said much else to Uilliam, though Uilliam had regaled him with stories from his past. From these, Rowland had concluded that his companion was either an interesting man or an interesting liar.

  Uilliam claimed he was a traveler, said he helped people along the way and somehow made a living at it. He wasn’t too specific about what he did for them, though. “A range of things,” he’d said. That answer didn’t make trusting him any easier. He was hiding something, Rowland suspected— and though some secrets are noble, most are not.

  Uilliam led Rowland to Georgetown’s only inn. The pub on the main floor was packed with locals, but the rooms above were all vacant. Uilliam, charming as he was, swung a bit of a discount. Rowland told him he didn’t have any money to help pay. Uilliam shook his head and waved his hand, dismissing even the thought of it. Rowland was forced to accept his companion’s generosity, which he supposed was preferable to sleeping in the woods.

  They had dinner and a couple pints of ale before calling it a night. Rowland wasn’t much of a drinker, so it was enough to get him tipsy. While it wasn’t a feeling he was accustomed to, it also wasn’t the worst one in the world. Finally, about when Rowland could barely keep his eyelids from falling, they both headed upstairs. There were two beds in one room, a few feet from one another; nothing special, but when Rowland sat down on his, he realized it was softer than anything he was used to, and that he might just sleep well tonight. It was something small to look forward to— the most he could ask for these days.

  They undressed. Rowland slid under his sheets first. Uilliam smiled at him — he was always smiling — before slipping into his own bed and blowing out the lantern on the nightstand between them. The blue darkness of night set in, accompanied by the sound of crickets through the window. It was perfectly relaxing. Rowland anticipated a good night’s sleep. God knew he needed one.

  * * *

  Howling. At first, the sound played into his dream. It was Rowland howling and crying. Adulthood was a permanently open wound, and for the life of him, he couldn’t stop the bleeding.

  He’d wandered too far into the woods, into a deep place where dark branches and roots overtook the forest floor and hid the stars. Rowland couldn’t find his way back out, couldn’t return home, lost to nature’s whims.

  But he could feel God watching him. And so he howled louder and louder, howled for help — for God or Mom or even Dad, wherever he was — but God didn’t care, as cruelly apathetic as he was omnipotent. God only watched. Watched him cry, watched those black roots overtake Rowland, crawling up his limbs like snakes, rough bark ripping into his skin. Until finally, Rowland howled so loud that the whole world fell to pieces.

  He woke to the sound of a dog crying in the alley. Outside, it was still dark. Rowland let out an exasperated sigh. Once again, a good night’s sleep had evaded him. He rolled over, onto his other side, and saw Uilliam in the second bed a few feet away. Like Rowland, he was awake.

  “Very noisy dog,” said Uilliam, sleepy and raspy.

  “Yeah.”

  Uilliam sat up and wiped his eyes. Then he shifted his body until he was sitting upright on the bed, his feet on the floor, facing Rowland. “Suppose we can chat for a while.”

  Aaarrroooooooooooo! Rrrooo, rrrooo, rrrooooooooo!

  Rowland nodded and sat up too.

  “I’m curious, how old are you, Rowland?” asked Uilliam.

  “Seventeen,” said Rowland. “How old are you?”

  “Older than seventeen.” Uilliam smiled. “Older than I look too. Remind me, what’s it like being seventeen? Is there some fair, supple damsel you fancy?”

  Rowland blushed and shook his head— there wasn’t.

  “None pretty enough for you?”

  Rowland chuckled uncomfortably. “I guess not.”

  “Aye,” said Uilliam. “You’re a good-looking lad. You shouldn’t settle.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Have you ever been with one— a woman?”

  “How do you mean?” asked Rowland, who understood the question perfectly and was stalling.

  “You know what I mean.” Uilliam called him on it. “Have you slept with a lady yet?”

  Rowland shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “You’re young. It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Uilliam, handsome and wise. “What about a man?”

  “What?” This time, Rowland really was confused— though not entirely.

  “Have you ever slept with a man?” asked Uilliam, as nonthreatening as he was serious. He always struck just the right balance.

  “No.” Rowland cleared his throat. It was the truth, and yet he could sense Uilliam looking right through him, as if he saw something in Rowland that even he himself couldn’t see— yet felt. It showed on Rowland’s face, which was red even in the dark.

  “It’s okay,” said Uilliam, moving himself onto Rowland’s bed. He sat down beside him, as close as he could, resting a hand on Rowland’s leg. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

  * * *

  Rowland didn’t get any more sleep that night, nor did his companion, now lying naked beside him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about what had just happened, although Uilliam seemed perfectly content. And ever-perceptive.

  “You’re restless,” said Uilliam. “Don’t be. Relax. You’re safe with me.”

  Rowland nodded but didn’t make eye contact.

  “What do you know about Ancient Greece?” asked Uilliam.

  Rowland shrugged. “Not much.”

  “In Ancient Greece, it was common for men to sleep with other men. In fact, there was a great Greek philosopher by the name of Plato who thought that love between two men was something special, something beautiful. Did you know that?”

  Rowland shook his head.

  “Aye, he did. Of course, nowadays most people wouldn’t agree with Plato. But Plato had a theory about that. You see, Rowland, there will always be men who want to rule over you, control you. These men don’t want you to experience beauty. Beauty gives you more to live for. And the Christians, they don’t want that. They want the world to be a cold, dark place from which only their God can save you. In the end, it’s all about power
— for them.”

  Rowland pondered for a moment, but he knew — as he’d known for some time now — that Uilliam spoke the truth. God, the Church, all of it: a lie. The one woman in his village who might have been able to save his mom, a healer, was hanged in Salem three years ago. Hanged because she could do something beautiful: help people. Hanged because she could do what a non-existent God could not.

  “I know,” said Rowland. “I know it’s all a lie.”

  Uilliam smiled and nodded, brushing Rowland’s hair out of his eyes with his fingers. “Then I will show you true beauty, Rowland,” he said, “and true power. I will show you power that can actually save.”

  Uilliam lifted one hand above his chest, cupping the air over his palm. His lips began to move, and his eyes— they were glowing. And then… red. Emanating from his palm, soaking the walls and sheets, slipping out the window into the blue night. Everywhere, red.

  Chapter 15

  Mason awoke.

  Rather, it was something not unlike awaking. He saw, yet he saw nothing; he felt his eyes open, but the world was all black. He pushed his body upward, shifting onto his feet, and somehow it felt too easy, standing did. His body felt too light, and when he took his first step, that was too simple as well. But Mason didn’t bother wondering why; questions are born from answers, and the unyielding darkness that encompassed everything around him offered none.

  Aimlessly, he walked and walked — there was little else for a man in the dark to do — and more and more he thought about things. First and foremost, he thought about the events that had just transpired— the final moments before the darkness. He guessed he was dead, and he was right. Then this must be the Spirit Realm. He hadn’t imagined it would be so… empty. Still, he marched on, unsure if he was even really moving. The darkness also offered no landmarks.

  Mason wondered what being dead meant to him and quickly concluded he wasn’t a fan of death— that he’d rather be on the other side of the great divide, as he had been only moments ago. He lingered on that last part: had it been only moments, or had it been hours now? With no objective reality in which to ground things, space and time were suddenly as superfluous as his own damned existence in this cruel place. Just like Lester had said. Still, it felt like moments.