F Wilson - The Dark at the End

He fairly leaped toward the screen when he heard an announcer mention a “live report from Nuckateague.” A pretty woman reporter wearing a hooded parka stood in the swirling snow and spoke into a microphone while firefighters, lit by flashing lights from their trucks, milled back and forth before a large pile of smoking rubble.

“I tell you, Evan, it’s like a war zone out here. A waterfront mansion in this quiet, well-to-do hamlet has been razed to the ground after reports of multiple explosions. The detached garage has also been reduced to ashes and the car within appears to have been ripped apart by a bomb. Take a look…”

Ernst stared in wonder as the camera panned across the scene. The Order had owned the property for decades. Ernst remembered spending a weekend there a few summers ago. How shocking to see what had become of it.

Jack, Jack, Jack… I do believe I underestimated you.

The reporter went on to mention the three bodies that had been found in a garage across the street-two women and a man, all murdered.

Georges and Gilda, no doubt. But who was the second woman?

Jack had taken no prisoners, apparently.

But where was the most important body? What had happened to the One? Had Jack destroyed him so completely that no trace remained? Were his ashes mixed with those of the house?

Ernst hoped so. For that would mean that the Change would be postponed indefinitely. Perhaps forever. Certainly for his own lifetime.

And his own lifetime was all that mattered.

Glaeken had given him a key to the elevator. Jack entered the darkened apartment, knowing he’d find him up. He was right. He spotted him by the big picture window, silhouetted against the glow of the snowy city.

Three and a half hours on the road to get here, dreading and anticipating this moment.

“Well?”

Glaeken didn’t turn from the window.

“You’re asking me if he lives?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t know?”

“I blew him up, set him on fire, and blew him up again. But I couldn’t confirm the kill. What’s left of him is somewhere on or under Gardiner’s Bay.”

Glaeken sighed. “He lives.”

Jack dropped onto the couch and let his head drop back. “Shit.”

“But barely. Just barely.”

“What’s that mean?”

Now Glaeken turned but Jack could not see his features. He imagined a pretty grim expression.

“Ever since his rebirth he has been a presence, a dissonant hum between my ears. That hum is still there, yet it has grown so faint in the past few hours that it hovers on the edge of perception. He is severely wounded, perhaps mortally so. He is dying.”

“But he’s not dead.”

The silhouette shook its head. “No. Not yet.”

Jack didn’t know what more he could do. Be great if he knew someone in the Coast Guard. He could commandeer a cutter and go out in the storm with a harpoon, searching for what was left of Rasalom.

Yeah, right.

“Tell me the circumstances.”

Jack recounted the progression of events during the four fateful minutes in Nuckateague.

Glaeken shook his head. “I don’t see what else you could have done.”

“I could have gotten more up close and more personal.”

“And if you had, you might not be here describing your travails.”

Jack banged the arm of the couch with a fist. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“We wait. From the sound of what you put him through, he must die soon. Unless…”

The last thing Jack wanted to hear right then was an unless.

“Unless what?”

“Unless someone helps him. But his two attendants are dead, and the storm is keeping everyone inside. Where could he find help?”

“He could wash up near the house and some rescue worker could spot him and pull him out. Some CPR, some IV fluids, some hypothermia treatment, and some do-gooder could assure the end of life as we know it.”

“What are the chances?”

“Who knows? I listened to the radio all the way in. Plenty of talk about the fire and the three bodies, but not a word about a survivor.”

“Yet.”

Jack nodded. “Let’s turn on the TV and keep posted as to whether there’s a sole survivor of this terrible tragedy. Because if there is, he’s going to require a late-night consultation by Doctor Jack to finish the job.”

He opened his eyes again and saw the light. And once again he reassembled his scattered thoughts into a semi-coherent assessment of his situation.

He had washed up on an unknown shore. He lay upon snow-covered sand. A light shone somewhere ahead. He had been trying to reach it, crawling toward it. But every time he progressed a few feet, he passed out. And each attempt yielded less progress and briefer consciousness. But now something new.

Somewhere a dog barked.

The light went out…

… and came back on again. And something else. A vocal rumble nearby.

A dog, sniffing, panting, and growling. Would it attack? He could not defend himself against a sick kitten, let along a hungry dog. Never, not even during his darkest days trapped in the depths of the keep, had he felt this helpless.

And then a voice… one of the cattle… a cow… far away… or perhaps it only seemed far away.

“Rocky? Rocky, come back here this instant!”

He clung to the sound like a sailor to flotsam. He tried to speak but had no voice. He managed to raise his remaining hand, and that set the dog to barking again.

“What have you got out there, you dumb mutt?” the cow said. He sensed age in the voice. “Whatever it is, leave it alone and come inside before you catch your death.”

No! Do not go in! Stay!

“Don’t make me come out there!”

Yes! Come out! I beg you, come out! I will give you anything! I will seat you at my right hand after the Change if you will only bring me into your house!

He moved his hand again, precipitating a new round of near hysterical barking.

“I declare, you are the dumbest creature on Earth!” The voice… growing louder. “And I’m even dumber for coming out in this to get you. I should leave you out here, but you’re so dumb you’d forget how to find the door! You’ll probably-Mother of God! Is that-?”

He felt something nudge him. A toe? He raised his hand as he had before.

“Dear God, he’s alive!”

He felt something tighten on his left arm. He assumed it was the cow’s hands but he was too numb to feel anything beyond deep pressure.

“You’re going to have to help me, mister,” she said. “I’m assuming you don’t know I’m on in years and don’t see so well. You’re dead weight and I can’t move you on my own.”

He pushed against the ground with his right hand while she tugged on his left arm. Suddenly she released him and he dropped again.

“Dear God! Your hand! Did you lose your hand?”

He wanted to scream, Isn’t that obvious, you old idiot?

Fortunately for him, he still had no voice. He could only grunt.

She grabbed him again, pulling on his truncated left arm while he dug his right hand into the semi-frozen snow and pushed toward the light.

Plenty on the late-night news about the destruction and dead bodies out in Nuckateague, but nothing about a survivor.

Jack didn’t know if that was good or not. If they found an unidentified man hovering near death, he’d know where to go and what to do to finish the job. If they didn’t, it meant Rasalom was still out in the storm, burned, battered, barely breathing-and ready to breathe his last, Jack hoped.

He rose and grabbed his jacket. “I might as well head out.”

“Stopping in to see your ladies?”

“Nah. Don’t think I’m good company tonight.”