Kane Gilmour - Ragnarok

“Cool, man” he said.

No. Not cool. How did they get here? You didn’t even see them come out of the portal did you?

Then he felt the tiny voice shrinking again.

Why?

Fiona. Remember Fiona.

The voice grew stronger and tried to work out the mystery of why again. How long had he been here in the hallway? He turned his head again and looked down the corridor past the dire wolves that clung to every surface.

Deep Blue isn’t here anymore.

A clanging bell sounded somewhere deep inside of him, like a big red wall-mounted number used in older elementary schools. But it was so soft. Almost beyond the range of his hearing.

He was worried, that’s what it was. Deep Blue was more than a teammate and former President. He was a friend.

Where is he?

The voice noticed the shattered window at the end of the carpeted hallway. The smile on his face faded slowly, hesitantly, as if it wasn’t sure it wanted to contribute to a look of concern on his face. Smiling was so good and right.

Fiona. Where’s Fiona?

No, the small voice shouted from the black depths of his hind-mind, she’s safe in New Hampshire. Safe with Endgame. Endgame. That’s right. Deep Blue…

He had turned back and stared at the wall of light again. He hadn’t even been aware of turning away from the sight of the shattered window. Damn. He turned again to look down the corridor, but this time he did so slower and more deliberately. The smile that had crept back onto his face remained, but he was afraid to battle it. Whatever had control of him was incredibly strong, and the nature of his bliss as a weapon prevented him from even noticing when he was being attacked. One battle at a time. Why? How?

He dimly recalled Deep Blue wearing a parachute. He must have bugged out. But why? His thoughts rapidly returned to his own predicament and used the mantra that was allowing him to retain even a sliver of control over his senses.

Fiona.

How was the portal controlling him? Or were the dire wolves doing it? It wasn’t the light. It wouldn’t have been a physical attack or an auditory one. He was protected against that. He slowly slid his hand up to touch the side of his cheek. He felt the rough stubble there. He hadn’t shaved since leaving the hotel for Epcot.

Fiona. When did I take off the helmet? He looked down at himself. He was still wearing the rest of the armor. So I was wearing the helmet before, and the only things coming in the helmet were light and…air.

It was something in the air. He recalled that Deep Blue was not wearing an armor helmet-he wore the special helmet Aleman had helped design for him. The black one with the computer displays. And Deep Blue had said it had air-scrubbing filters that could remove close to 98 % of contaminants in the atmosphere that he breathed. So it wouldn’t have been a gas that was controlling King, or else Deep Blue might have been affected, too.

Why? Fiona. What then? Something airborne but not as potent as a gas? Frustration welled up in the back of King’s mind and he was surprised to find it a potent remedy for his artificial bliss. He was used to fighting, but fighting with hands and weapons on a battlefield or in an alley in some Third World backwater. He could handle frigid polar wastes and arid desert climes. This sort of cerebral fight was new to him and he wasn’t sure how to go about it. He couldn’t isolate the enemy, its methods or its motives.

Fiona. She’s safe and that is the most important thing. The next was figuring out how to get out of the happy trap. Frustration was good. Maybe anger will be better? He willed himself to be angry, but soon felt himself slipping into distraction and forgot what he was trying to do. He almost lost it altogether, when his thoughts again turned to those he loved and Fiona!

Why?

How?

In the air.

I’m breathing it. Can I hold my breath long enough for the effect to stop?

But then another idea occurred to King. He turned his head again back to the broken window at the end of the hallway. The gaping grin was still on his face but he made no move to change that. He would need all his willpower to accomplish what he had planned. First, he took a breath and held it. Not a deep gulp but a covert intake. The dire wolves that lined the hall still looked at him occasionally, sniffing the air. If this worked, he didn’t want to alert them that he was gaining control.

As he was about to initiate the second phase of his plan, an overwhelming urge to look at the portal swept through him like a tornado ripping up trailer homes in the Midwest. He squeezed his eyes shut, and still holding his breath, repeated his daughter’s name again and again. His head buzzed from the lack of oxygen and from the monotony of the mantra, but he felt the urge to look at the light slip away from him.

When the desire became manageable again, he forced that small but growing voice to let out a scream in his head.

Walk!

He took a step away from the portal, toward the opening, the daylight and the city street at the end of the corridor. He opened his eyes and the hallway looked to stretch into the horizon like a perspective drawing, dwindling down into a tiny dot.

He felt dizzy now from lack of air but refused to breathe again. He took a second step. The smile on his face wanted to diminish. The artificiality of it wanted to fade. Not completely, but from a shit-eating grin to a smirk. He refused to let it and kept the grimace of a smile in place. Another step and another, past a dire wolf on the left wall. It smelled him as he passed, but made no move toward him.

He took a chance and reached out his hand and stroked the creature’s neck, smiling still. The creature didn’t move. Its skin no longer felt like soft down. More like rubber. How much did this attack alter my perceptions? But that line of questioning cost him control, so he returned his thoughts to Fiona and walking. Forcing all his will onto those two thoughts. The edges of his vision began to blur a bit, but he could still see. His lungs struggled to get to fresh air, but he denied them. Another step and past another dire wolf. Two more between him and the window.

The effort was taking its toll and he could feel a trickle of sweat on his forehead, dripping toward his left eyebrow. He closed his eyes and focused on Fiona. The grin slipped. The sweat dripped off his eyebrow and down his eyelid. He opened his eye and the lid flicked the remaining liquid away. Two more steps. The smile was down to just a notion now, and he let it go. It wouldn’t matter soon. He passed another dire wolf, this one moving slowly along the ceiling toward the portal over his head. He ducked a little as it passed him, but he kept his speed the same-deliberately slow.

Then he felt it. The November Manhattan breeze on his face, gusting in from the shattered window forty stories above the asphalt. He pulled air in through his nostrils, slowly, testing it. The breath made him happier, but not loopy. Good. One mystery solved. It was the air. He took another step, past a dire wolf crouched on the floor. This one swiveled its head to follow his stroll. Does it know? Does it suspect?

Three more steps and he would be right next to the shattered window. He drew in another lungful of air and slowly exhaled. Crisp and cold, the always-static acrid tang of New York on his tongue. But happy? Not too much. He was nearly out of the zone of influence, which must have been the portal, because the dire wolf behind him was still within arm’s reach. If it was emitting the bliss, then King reasoned he would still be feeling the full effect at this end of the hall.

He took another step into the fresh air and heard movement behind him.

He turned to see that all five of the dire wolves in the corridor were now keenly staring at him, their ten bulbous eyes locked on target.