Paranormals | Book 3 | Darkness Reigns

by Andrews, Christopher

  Mark ground his teeth and snarled, “I’m gonna find you, asshole.” And he wasn’t just thinking of Park when he said it.

  Then the darkness lifted, and the hallway was back to normal. The patient room door on his immediate left opened a crack, and a topless fifty-something man with an unnaturally flat belly and flab-free chest peered outside, a bewildered expression on his face.

  “Wh-what just happened?” the patient asked.

  But Mark didn’t bother to answer, as he turned back to help his partner.

  Mike was thrashing on the floor, clawing at the place where his face should have been. Mark slid to his side.

  “Mike? Mike! Can you hear me?!”

  Mike’s flailing eased, a little, and he nodded. At least, Mark thought he did.

  “You gotta move your hands, man! Let me see. Let me see!”

  His partner finally relaxed, just enough, to allow Mark to pull his hands away.

  Oh, Jesus ...

  No wonder the kid was panicking, and no wonder he was doing so in such eerie silence. He literally had no face left — and that included no nostrils or mouth.

  He was suffocating, smothering under his own smeared skin!

  Mike succumbed to his panic again, clawing once more at his non-existent face, and Mark didn’t blame him one bit.

  He didn’t know what to do. What should he do?!

  Think, damn it, think! Think of something, anything, or Mike’s dead! What - should - I - do?!

  Mike’s thrashing slowed. And Mark could see his warped skin starting to turn a little blue.

  Okay. Forget fixing the face itself, that’s what Park’ll do later.

  Air. Mike needs air, right now.

  And Mark needed help.

  “Carolyn!” he cried. “Carolyn! Get back here! Please!”

  While he waited for Carolyn to respond, he scrambled to his feet and rushed over to Park’s desk. Thankfully, it had landed drawers-side up, so he didn’t need to wrestle it over. Yanking the few drawers open was a pain from this angle, but it still revealed what he feared: This was an office, not a patient room, and so there were no cutting instruments in here.

  He spun back around and, thanking any and all powers that be, saw Carolyn standing in the doorway, her eyes bulging as she stared down at Mike, her hand once again in its awkward place over her heart.

  “Carolyn, where does Park keep the sharp stuff?!”

  She looked up at him, blinking several times in confusion. “Wh-what?”

  He tried to ease off a little — he needed her help — but it was difficult. “The little knives ... scalpels! Where does Park keep his scalpels? Are they in every patient room, or are they locked up?”

  “Scalpels ...?”

  Mark clapped his hands twice, hard and loud. “Scalpels! For work, his work! Where does Park keep them?”

  She shook her head, her eyes drifting back down to Mike, who was really slowing down at this point. “He ... he doesn’t use them. Just his power.”

  Mark wanted to slap his forehead. Of course, stupid, he’s the paranormal “Skin Sculptor,” no knives, doesn’t need ‘em.

  Mike’s hands fell away. He was still twisting and turning a little, but the movements were sluggish, like he was under water.

  Get your act together, loser, or he’s dead!

  “Carolyn. Carolyn!”

  She looked back up at him.

  “I need ... I need an ink pen. Just a regular ballpoint, whatever. A pen! You got that?”

  She looked confused, but she nodded, her eyes drifting over to Park’s wreck of a desk.

  “Don’t have time to go fishin’ around in there,” he snapped. “Grab one from a patient room, the front desk, wherever. Just get it, now! Please.”

  She nodded again, then turned and hustled away.

  Mark rushed back over to his partner, kneeling at his side. “Mike! Still with me?”

  Nothing, no acknowledgment. He wasn’t moving at all anymore.

  Mark slapped his cheek, cringing when his fingers smacked the fleshy mush on the right side of his face. “C’mon, man! Stay with me!”

  Mike moved his head a little in what might have been a nod, bringing a sob of relief from Mark.

  “Hang in there, man. I’m ... I’m gonna help you.” He chose not to add, With somethin’ I once saw in a movie.

  He drew a breath to shout Carolyn’s name again, but then she appeared with three ballpoint pens in hand. She entered the office and held them out on her open palm, like an offering.

  “I ... I didn’t know what color you wanted?”

  Under other circumstances, Mark might’ve laughed at that. But not now.

  He grabbed one of the pens, then used his teeth to yank out the ink tube and the clicker-thingy at the back. He realized, too late, that he should’ve asked her for rubbing alcohol or something, but he couldn’t wait any longer.

  “Thanks, darlin’,” he said with sincere gratitude. “You don’t wanna be here for this part, but can you ... can you go grab some clean towels? You got those around here?”

  She nodded and disappeared once more.

  Leaving Mark alone with his next task, his heart already pounding in fear. No, not fear: Terror, terror so strong he felt like he was going to be sick.

  Placing his left hand on Mike’s forehead to steady him, just in case he moved again without warning, Mark poised his right hand over the base of his partner’s sweaty throat ... and extended his index finger.

  Please, God, he prayed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d prayed. It had been years, at least; maybe decades. But when it came to Mike, he had no pride. Not anymore.

  Please, God, let me do this right. Let me save him. I’ve got to save him.

  If he used too much force, his shockwave would punch a hole straight through Mike’s throat, then through his spine and the floor beyond. He had been working on more precision for a while, but nothing this ... this surgical. But he had no other choice.

  Please, God. You can have anything you want from me. You want my life? Take it, take it. Just ... just don’t ... don’t let him ...

  He blinked furiously at the tears that threatened his vision. No time for that. Mike’s face — what should have been his face — was bluer than ever.

  Please, please, God, let me get this right. For once in my stupid, useless life, let me get something right on the first try. Let me get this right, let me get this right, let me get this right!

  The air around his fingertip rippled ...

  Please, God! Please!

  ... and a narrow shockwave emerged from under his fingernail, punched downward with less force than he had ever pulled off before, but still managed to bore a small hole through the flesh of Michael Takayasu’s throat, below his Adam’s apple.

  Blood pulsed out of the wound, but Mark also heard a gurgling whistle as air tried to rush back in.

  The tears came again, and Mark gasped, “Thank you! Oh, Jesus, oh, God, thank you so much ...”

  Still holding Mike steady by the forehead, Mark took the empty ink pen tube and pushed it into the hole. How deep should he go? He knew he needed to create an artificial airway, but that was all he knew, and he only knew that much thanks to insomnia and late-night TV. Was just the tip of the pen enough, or should he ...?

  The pen tube was maybe a third of the way in when he heard more gurgling, but this was ... cleaner? Freer?

  And then Mike began to move, his arms tensing and lifting, the bluish tinge leaving his skin as his head tried to turn under Mark’s firm hand.

  “Mike, Mike,” he said, clearing his voice to speak through the tears, because the last thing he needed was for his partner to panic, maybe try to pull out the pen tube. “Listen to me, man. Listen, okay? I know ... I know you’re out of it, I know you’re scared and in pain. I’m sorry, I had to perform a ... an emergency ... tra— trach ...?” He shook his head. “I had to put a hole in your throat so you could breathe.”

  Mike did reach for the pen, b
ut Mark saw it coming and intercepted his grasping hand, clasping it in his own.

  “You’re ... you’re gonna be fine, Mike. You hear me? I know you can’t see, and I know you ... just trust me, okay? Trust me. Please.”

  Mike’s head shifted under his hand, a more controlled, less confused movement ...

  ... and then he saw Mike nod, a for-sure nod, and he squeezed Mark’s hand — three little squeezes, one, two, three.

  Mark didn’t know if it was supposed to mean something specific; he wouldn’t put it past the kid to know Morse code or some shit. But what it meant to Mark was that the kid was awake, he was aware, he had heard Mark and understood.

  He was alive.

  “S-sir ...?”

  Mark looked up to see Carolyn standing in the doorway, clean towels clutched to her considerable chest.

  “Is he ...” she asked, “... is your friend okay?”

  Mark chuckled out of sheer, almost euphoric relief. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s gonna be okay. Dar—” He had almost called her “darlin’ ” again, then thought better of it. She deserved better. “Carolyn, could you please call an ambulance for me?”

  She nodded and turned away, forgetting to leave the towels. But that was all right.

  He knew his anger would return — he would hunt down Park and make him fix this, he would find the Skygger and break it in half. But for now?

  For now, Mark stayed on the floor, holding his partner’s hand, and waited for help to arrive.

  THE GLADIUS AND SHOCKWAVE

  John recovered after a few hours of sleep, thanks to a compromise between his body and his magic: His reservoir was quite tapped after his colossal effort to pull his brother back from the brink, yet his Santicasta healing trance still managed to ease his aches, to diminish the fatigue poisons throughout his body, and to provide a most restful short, but deep, slumber. It was a balancing act — the body against the magic, and back around to the body — that required considerable skill.

  Dryal would have been proud of him. As wondrous as it was to see Steve again (the circumstances notwithstanding), he missed Dryal terribly. Dryal and Venubis, and Akribos.

  Nevertheless, he joined Shining Star outside Steve’s room in due course. Whenever the nurses tended to Steve, he would perform a brief Spoetium spell, to make sure they were not the Skygger in disguise — his mental probe had proven inadequate when aimed at the Skygger, but if he encountered any medical staff whose thoughts were too clouded, too vague ... well, it was the best test he had been able to think of, given the situation.

  In the interim, he waited. Waited for Steve to wake up, waited for Lieutenant Takayasu to return with Shockwave, waited for Powerhouse to recover from his concussion — were John not rebuilding his energy, he would’ve attempted to accelerate the big man’s recovery. They could not remain on the defensive forever. At best, they would eventually tire, their nerves would fray, and their guard would erode; at worst, the Skygger would start slaughtering innocent people to draw them away from Steve — John was actually surprised it hadn’t tried something like that already.

  If only he could think of some way to take the offensive ... but nothing came to mind, yet.

  And so, he waited.

  The one positive (no, amazing!) side of his waiting: As they stood guard together, he was able to make some small talk with Shining Star — and what small talk it was! While he didn’t want to give away too much of his own rather involved “back story” by reacting too overtly ... between the things Callin said to him, to the occasional PCA field agents who approached, to one star-struck nurse, and more exchanges with his personal communication device, John learned that — in addition to being a paranormal — “Shining Star” was an honest-to-God alien. As in, an actual extra-terrestrial. As in, from outer space!

  While John, in another dimension, had encountered non-sonin (non-human) sentient life, which ranged from near-elves, like Dryal, to truly hideous beasts, those interactions had still been restricted to the denizens of that one world, his adopted home of Trolidi. The idea that, in the two (relative) years since he had left Earth, beings from somewhere out in the cosmos had made first contact — and apparently settled a colony, here on Earth! — left the old, Earthborn side of John wonderstruck.

  John glanced over at Shining Star as these thoughts flitted through his mind, then looked away before he got caught staring.

  Man, he thought. An actual alien. And not only that, but an alien who has apparently befriended my own brother? Amazing. He shook his head and smirked beneath his mask. Wow. Two brothers: One ends up a superhero who rubs shoulders with aliens from outer space, the other crosses dimensions and lives hundreds of years as a magic-user. Seriously, what are the odds of that? Someone should write a book about us.

  The swinging doors to John’s right burst open with enough force to draw his attention; Shockwave, Lieutenant Takayasu’s partner, marched toward them, and he looked frazzled, his eyes wild. Had he encountered the Skygger?

  But first things first, John whispered, “Spoetium.”

  Shockwave’s mind burned with determined anger, recent memories overflowing with fear, relief, and a strong sense of friendship. John didn’t have time to push for details, but this told him enough: It was not the Skygger-in-disguise who was bearing down on them.

  Shockwave stomped up to stand before John, but then turned his head to address Shining Star. “We still trust him?” he asked while cocking his head toward John.

  Shining Star responded with his own question. “Are you all right?”

  Mark waved that away with an impatient hand. “More bad shit’s happened, I’ll explain later.” He jerked a thumb toward John. “Do we still trust this guy?”

  Shining Star regarded John for a moment. “Yes. I believe so.”

  Mark clipped, “Good.” Then, to John, he said, “Come with me.” And he strode back toward the swinging doors without waiting for a reply.

  John glanced back at Shining Star, who said, “It sounds urgent. Go. I’ll be here for Vortex.”

  John nodded, but even as he followed after Shockwave, he called back, “Let no one in until I get back.”

  Shining Star nodded in return. “Agreed. But don’t be long.”

  John caught up to Shockwave just as he bypassed the elevator in favor of the stairs. He started to ask what was going on, but Shockwave wore a scowl on his face that suggested he would not get anything helpful out of him just yet.

  On the ground floor, John ignored the strange looks he was getting from patients and staff as Shockwave led him up to a particular curtain in the emergency room, where another familiar face was waiting.

  “Thanks for gettin’ here so fast,” Shockwave said to Jeremy Walker as they reached him.

  “I was already on my way,” Walker explained as he waved a greeting to John. “I was coming to check on— check on Vortex, see how he’s doing.”

  Shockwave grunted, but he looked back to John. “How is he doin’?”

  “Stable, and still asleep,” John told them both, then decided it was time to pipe up. “What is going on here, exactly?”

  Shockwave drew back the curtain a little, so the two of them could see in.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Walker choked. “What— What are we ...?”

  John wasn’t sure what to make of the man’s missing face, but the familiar trench coat and overall build prompted him to ask, “Is that Lieutenant Takayasu?”

  “Yeah.”

  The man without a face turned his head toward them a bit, but the movement was sluggish. Given the circumstances, John hoped that it was because Takayasu was sedated.

  Walker asked, “What happened to him?”

  Shockwave told them all about their second interview with someone named Doctor Park, and how it had taken a drastic, disastrous turn, which included Park’s escaping with help that must have come from the Skygger. The end result of the whole affair lay before them on the emergency room bed, in the form of the literally-defaced Lieutenant Takayasu
.

  John considered how claustrophobic it would be, to have your eyes, nose, and mouth sealed with your own flesh; he had lived a long life, but even he had difficulty imagining exactly how ghastly that would be. He saw that someone had cut a breathing hole into the man’s throat, and that was surely all that saved his life.

  “Can you fix him?”

  Walker looked confused by Shockwave’s question, but to John, it explained exactly why they were there. And he dreaded having to answer.

  “What?” Walker was asking. “What do you mean?”

  Shockwave’s response was an irritable, “You two fixed Vortex, right? Saved his life, brought him back from death and all that.” He hooked a thumb toward Lieutenant Takayasu. “Can you fix him? Fix his face?”

  Walker looked in at Takayasu, then toward John, his expression asking for help.

  John shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, we can’t.”

  Shockwave’s eyes flared in barely controlled rage. Through a clenched jaw, he spat out, “Why the hell not?”

  “Based on what you described to us ... Shockwave, your partner isn’t ‘wounded.’ Not the way that Vortex was. There is nothing for us to heal, nothing—”

  Shockwave jerked his thumb toward Takayasu again, an angry stabbing gesture this time. “You callin’ that nothing, dumbass?”

  “Mark ...” Walker said in gentle voice. “He’s right. Lieutenant Takayasu isn’t bruised, or bleeding, or burned. From what I can see, the only ‘wound’ on him right now is that hole where they’ve put in the breathing tube. The Gladius and I could heal that. And if this Doctor Park, if he maybe tore something inside his— inside the skin where his face was, we could heal that. But this ...” He gestured toward Takayasu, then lowered his hand in a self-conscious motion, as though he had been caught pointing a rude finger at a blind man. “We’re not saying that it’s ‘nothing,’ we’re not blowing it off. But there just isn’t anything we can do. He’s not injured, it’s more like his actual skin has been rearranged.” Then he forced a hopeful tone back into his voice, which he also kept low so that Takayasu’s uncovered ears would not pick it up. “If they try, you know, reconstructive surgery on him, we can speed up the healing process for that, sure. Just not ... not something like this.”