Terminal City: Book One in the Terminal City Saga

by Trevor Melanson

  “Sit down.” He pointed to the nearest wall. “Over there.”

  The big one wandered back outside to his post.

  “I’m pretty sure this is illegal,” said Mason, sitting uncomfortably on the hard marble floor, wriggling his wrists to no avail. The plastic bond wouldn’t budge, but it did bite.

  The situation wasn’t good. He knew what these men were capable of, what they would do to him given the opportunity. He’d already died once finding out; he doubted the Spirit Realm would give him another shot at life. But he couldn’t talk his way out of this predicament, not at this point. Technically speaking, they were right about him— he was a necromancer.

  But they weren’t doing their due diligence. The big one was outside, and the bald one looked lost in thought. Mason could make a move, if only he had the right spell. That’s when he spotted the yellow piece of paper poking out of his inside jacket pocket. Rowland’s gift.

  Craning his neck downward like a hyena, Mason snapped up the small slip of paper with his front teeth. It wasn’t easy, but unfolding it proved even harder. He rubbed the paper — and his face — against his leather-clad shoulder over and over until finally it flipped open. Then he dropped the note face up onto his lap and checked on his captor. So far, so good.

  He stared down at the note without really reading it. Written in coarse black ink were two lines of Deathspeak, nothing more. They were words that could kill— Rowland had been clear enough about that. If Mason used this spell now, he would be a murderer, just like the man upstairs. And yet what choice did he have? It really was him or them, and he didn’t want it to be him. Besides, they probably deserved it.

  “What’s your name, kid?” The pensive inquisitor had finally returned his attention to Mason.

  Mason looked up. “Josh.” He said it almost automatically. Maybe this time it would work.

  “I go by Mr. Lee. My colleague, Mr. Cooper, the big guy out there, he can be a bit brash.”

  “I noticed.”

  “And I apologize,” said Mr. Lee from across the room. It surprised Mason. “But understand, Josh, that his heart is in the right place.”

  Mason had his doubts. “You don’t say.”

  “I know you don’t believe me, but the world needs people like Mr. Cooper. We all play our part— in different ways.”

  “So, what about you?” asked Mason.

  “What about me?”

  “Why does the world need people like you?”

  Mr. Lee smiled. His teeth were stained and crooked, as neglected as the rest of him. “The world needs people like me,” he said, “to temper people like Mr. Cooper.”

  Mason almost laughed. “And me? What purpose do I serve?”

  Mr. Lee shrugged with false humility. “Only God knows for sure.” And with that pearl of pseudo-wisdom, he returned to his thoughts, pacing around the unlit lobby with his hands folded behind him like a philosopher.

  Back to the task at hand. This time, Mason focused on the text. It was hard to read in the dark, but he managed. In fact, he was surprised how easy deciphering it was. He’d memorized how to pronounce Deathspeak, but never before had he truly understood the language. Suddenly, it made sense to him, in a strange but clear way. He probably wouldn’t have been able to translate the message for someone else, but he understood its purpose well enough: to transfer life from this realm to the next.

  Mason began muttering the chant, more for practice than purpose, but his trial run was cut short. Mr. Lee had noticed something was off.

  “What are you reading?” he asked accusingly.

  Mason didn’t bother to lie this time. The inquisitor was walking toward him. It was now or never. It was him or Mason.

  Mason relayed each Deathspoken word more loudly than the last, until he felt their purpose, and then directed them toward Mr. Lee.

  The inquisitor reached for his gun and dropped it in the same second. He coughed up a litre of blood, speckling Mason’s face crimson. Red dripped from his nose and ears, until finally he fell down face-first, his head thumping the marble floor between Mason’s legs.

  There was no doubt Mr. Lee was dead. Nor that Mason had killed him.

  Mason didn’t move for a while, not until the pool of blood spreading underneath Mr. Lee’s head nearly touched him. With his back against the wall, Mason rolled his body sideways — away from the dead inquisitor — then scrambled awkwardly to his feet. Standing up was harder than it should have been; he needed to cut the zip tie binding his wrists.

  But that would have to wait. Mr. Cooper, the big one, re-emerged from behind the corner, gun in hand. He stared at Mason for two seconds, standing dumbly ten feet away, then shifted his attention to the corpse of Mr. Lee, resting face down behind his killer. Mr. Cooper’s eyes widened with realization and then, just as quickly, shrunk beneath a furrowed brow. It was a look that said, I knew it. But Mr. Cooper never got a chance to say the words.

  Killing him came easy. Automatically, even— like a burnt hand recoiling without thought. Mr. Cooper was dead before Mason even thought to kill him. And yet there he was, dead. Of course, it was a good thing all considered. Mr. Cooper would have done the same to him had Mason given him the chance, albeit via different means. Still, now he had killed two people, the second one before he’d even had a chance to process the first.

  But there was little time for that now. Mason had come here for a reason, and killing these men wasn’t it. This was just the life he lived these days. Kill or be killed. He fucking hated clichés.

  Mr. Cooper had fallen onto his back, his arms stretched outward like a crucifix. Mason stepped over his hand and turned the corner. He went back to the building’s shattered front entrance, kneeled, and picked up a jagged piece of glass from the floor. Once he’d cut his bond, he turned back around— back to the task at hand.

  And just as he found the stairwell, behind a plain metal door at the end of a hallway, Mason had a realization: he hadn’t even chanted the second time. He’d killed Mr. Cooper with hardly more than a mean glance. He’d killed him just like Rowland would have.

  Chapter 29

  Joan could see the frustration in Samuel’s eyes. He always got this way when things took too long— intense, irritable. The former, she’d always found attractive. The latter, not so much.

  The two of them had been driving through Terminal City and the red rain for the better part of an hour now, looking for a sign, a fluctuation in spirit energy— any clue as to Rowland’s whereabouts. So far, they hadn’t found a damn thing. Just more empty streets and bleeding gutters. But there was no question he was here— and up to something. The proof was pouring from the sky.

  “So many condos.” Joan was peering out the passenger side window. “They all look the same, like giant glass blades of grass. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a pretty city — the mountains, the ocean — but there’s something missing here. History, perhaps.”

  “I like Terminal City,” replied Samuel. “I like the newness of it. Maine certainly has history, but Terminal is building toward a future. It feels full of promise.”

  “And condos,” added Joan. She looked tired.

  Samuel shook his head, one hand slung over the steering wheel. “This is getting ridiculous. Call Jack and Victor again.”

  Joan grinded the gum in her mouth, sighing out her nostrils. She’d just phoned them five minutes ago. Had they found something, anything, they would have called back. Samuel, however, didn’t know how to wait; he needed to feel in control, to keep scrambling, even when it was futile. Especially when it was futile. But she didn’t want to argue with him, not right now. Relationships were about picking your battles. She punched in Victor’s number with her thumb.

  “Nothing,” she reported back to Samuel.

  Of course, he already knew that. After a pause, he shook his head. “Even for Rowland, this is… something else,
” he said. “I mean, look around— he’s covered the whole goddamn city. In all my years, I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never seen such a blatant violation of our laws.”

  Joan nodded in agreement. Maybe he was finally starting to see things her way. “It can’t go unpunished,” she said. “We must find a way to reprimand Rowland.”

  “I still haven’t the faintest clue how.”

  “We’ll think of something.”

  “I can’t imagine what,” he replied. “We have nothing he wants. Nothing to offer him and nothing to take from him. And he certainly doesn’t care what we think. Tell me, how do you exile a man who’s already exiled himself?” Samuel turned onto Burrard Street Bridge. “And that, over there.” He pointed to the ruins of Terminal City’s other downtown crossing. “I know that was him too. What I can’t decide, though, is whether he’s just being incredibly reckless or if he actually wants to be found out.”

  “He knows what he’s doing,” said Joan. “Rowland does everything for a reason. I just wish I knew what it was. What I do know is that he’s a threat. To us, to everyone. It only takes one arrogant necromancer, especially in this day and age. Once our secret’s out, we’re all in danger.”

  “I wonder.” Samuel looked pensive. “Do you think it’s inevitable?”

  “Do I think what’s inevitable?”

  “That we’ll be found out.”

  “Not if we do our jobs,” she said resolutely.

  He didn’t look so sure. “To be honest, I don’t know anymore. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. I know you really believe in what we do, and I certainly believe in looking out for our fellow necromancers, but just think about how much has changed over the last decade. All those videos being uploaded onto the internet, and smartphones— everyone’s recording everything now. How do you keep a secret as big as ours in the information age? One crack in the hull and we all start sinking— you said so yourself.”

  “You’ve never been a defeatist, Samuel.” Joan racked her brain for a better rebuttal.

  “I’m not,” he said sternly. “I just wonder if maybe we should be preparing for this. We still work off the assumption that information can be suppressed and controlled, off an outdated worldview. What would we say if people found out? We don’t even know. Is it so wrong to have a contingency plan?”

  “We don’t work in public relations,” she replied.

  He shrugged. “Maybe one day we will.”

  “I sincerely hope not.”

  They were back in the heart of downtown, back in the same intersection they’d driven through thirty minutes ago. Nothing had changed. They were no closer to finding Rowland.

  “Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad,” said Samuel. “At first, yeah, probably. But hasn’t history shown us that people change their minds? That they learn to accept new things, new people, new ideas?” He was hand-talking with his free one. “At least, if you give them enough time.”

  “It’s not the same,” said Joan. “We’re something else. And so far, history has not treated our kind well.”

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong,” he replied, “but the world has changed. For the better, I believe. The truth often faces an uphill battle. I mean, Galileo was convicted of heresy, but hey, now everyone knows the Earth rotates the Sun. At the end of the day, the truth won— and aren’t we better off knowing?”

  She smiled. “I would have never pegged you for an optimist when we first met.”

  “I don’t think I’m an optimist.” He almost sounded offended.

  “Yes,” she said, “you are. And don’t change. It’s my favorite thing about you.”

  “You know what my favorite thing about you is?” Samuel looked her in the eyes. “Your amazingly stunning… ass.”

  Joan spat out her gum and slapped him on the shoulder. They both laughed for the first time in a day, but the smile slipped from her face a moment too soon. “Slow down,” she said. “Do you feel that?”

  Samuel slowed the car. “Yeah,” he said. “I think so. It’s very faint.”

  “Or far away,” replied Joan.

  “We’ve already driven everywhere downtown.”

  “Everywhere but up,” she said, her gaze climbing the skyscraper at the end of the block.

  “You think he’s in one of these towers?”

  “I think he’s in that tower.” She pointed to the tallest one.

  “It’s still under construction,” he replied.

  “Exactly,” she said. “Think of all the empty floors up there. Lots of room to wage a war. A good place to draw attention to yourself too. I bet he’s up top. He could have sent out a signal before we got here, something to attract the inquisitors.”

  “A light for flies,” Samuel chimed in. “Let’s check it out.”

  “It could be crawling with them,” she said.

  “We’ll be careful.” He was back to being single-minded. “Call Jack and Victor.”

  She rang Victor, eagerly this time. “We found something. A fluctuation in spirit energy. Yeah. We think it’s coming from inside a tower. Downtown. It’s the tallest one. The one under construction. You can’t miss it. It’s at Burrard and, umm—”

  “Nelson,” said Samuel.

  “Nelson. Are you close? Well, then speed.” Joan hung up and turned to Samuel. “They’re about ten, maybe fifteen minutes away.”

  Samuel rolled to a stop along the curb just outside the tower’s front entrance. While typically a law-abiding citizen, he was willing to ignore the no-parking sign tonight. Sometimes good deeds needed to be prioritized.

  Joan knew that only too well. “I’m ready,” she said with a quick exhale.

  He nodded and stepped out first. They both knew the rain wouldn’t hurt them, but they wasted no time heading to the tower. “Over here.” Samuel squeezed himself through a break in the fence that surrounded the construction site.

  Joan followed. “This bloody rain better not stain.”

  He grabbed her hand, enveloping her small fingers in his, as the two of them jogged toward the main entrance. And there it was, their first clue: the glass door leading inside had been shattered, its bits strewn across the floor like ugly jewels. They exchanged a glance, and then Samuel went through shoulder-first, his hand slipping from hers. Joan went in after him.

  They walked slowly. The lobby was dark, a contrast to the city outside, like ink spilled over white paper. Samuel pointed ahead— or rather, at a head. The rest of the inquisitor’s body was hidden behind the corner.

  In her mind, Joan was already reciting a killing spell. She could end a man’s life in about two seconds if the situation required it. She always hoped it wouldn’t.

  Samuel turned the corner, ready to strike. Thankfully, he didn’t have to. “There’s another one,” he whispered. “Dead too.”

  Dead and then some, thought Joan. Both inquisitors were lying in pools of their own blood.

  Samuel brushed her back with his heavy hand. “Jack and Victor will be here soon.”

  Joan nodded. “Now we know for sure,” she said. “Rowland is definitely upstairs.”

  Indeed, there were many ways a necromancer could kill a man. Some were gentle, others tortuous. Some were clean, some bloody. And by the looks of it, whoever had killed these inquisitors was a brutal executioner.

  “Yeah,” sighed Samuel. “Who else?”

  Chapter 30

  The society we have described can never grow into a reality or see the light of day, and there will be no end to the troubles of states, or indeed, my dear Glaucon, of humanity itself, till philosophers become rulers in this world, or till those we now call kings and rulers really and truly become philosophers, and political power and philosophy thus come into the same hands.

  —Plato, The Republic

  * * *

  Mason was nearing th
e top of the tower. One misstep and he would fall over from exhaustion. For once, despite the stress, he didn’t want a cigarette. He wanted quite the opposite: more clean air than his lungs could hold— and perhaps a new pair of legs.

  Gunshots had been echoing down the stairwell for a while now, growing louder the higher he climbed. He’d heard the first one maybe ten minutes ago and wondered when they would run out of bullets. Probably not before he arrived. Mason wasn’t lucky enough for that. He would need some form of luck, however. He’d already killed two inquisitors, sure, but there were a hell of a lot more upstairs. Of course, they weren’t his target. Rowland was. They were just in the way, but that wouldn’t make getting past them any easier.

  Mason stopped abruptly. There were three inquisitors two flights of stairs above him, clutching their guns and ducking for cover around a doorframe. Mason didn’t waste any time retreating. He couldn’t exactly waltz right past them.

  “Shit,” he mouthed silently. Now what? As far as he could tell, there was no other way up. Could he kill all three inquisitors at once, he wondered? Surely, that’s what Rowland would have done, but Mason didn’t want to risk it, plus he still didn’t like killing people. Not to mention there were more inside; he could hear them.

  Stealth was his best option. He’d never mastered the invisibility spell, but he also hadn’t tried it since, well, his return as Mason 2.0. Perhaps he’d perform better now. There was only one sure way to find out, and time was as much his enemy as the men upstairs. He couldn’t remember the whole chant, but he knew enough to get started.

  As Mason spoke each word, it became clearer what should come next, until finally everything came together, as if he understood what it all meant. This time, he went fully invisible, though it took him a few seconds to realize, to see what could not be seen. He held out his right arm and stared at it, or rather where it ought to be. He couldn’t see so much as a mole now— just the stairs underneath him. It was a little disconcerting, yet once again he couldn’t help but feel proud of himself. Of course, now was not the time for self-congratulations.