F Wilson - The Dark at the End

“You need them.”

“But they don’t need me. Not like this.”

Glaeken was staring at him. “Are you all right, Jack? I ask this knowing the answer.”

“Well, if you know the answer, why are you asking?”

“Because I’m curious about the reason. I understand you’re angry and disappointed and frustrated about tonight-”

“Do you? Can you? I threw every goddamn thing I had at him-everything short of a tactical nuke-and you tell me the son of a bitch is still breathing.”

“You haven’t failed yet. He still might-”

“Not knowing is driving me nuts.”

“All the more reason to be with people who love you.”

“They won’t want to be with me very long. Even I don’t want to be with me tonight. So rather than alienate them, I figure it’s better I keep to myself.”

The old man continued his annoying stare. “This isn’t like you, Jack.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not feeling much like me lately.”

“Oh?”

He looked at the finger he’d cut batting away the knife Georges had thrown. Pretty much completely healed now.

“I told you about the healing bit.”

Glaeken nodded. “Not good news for either of us.”

“Got that right.” Glaeken on his way out and Jack being pushed someplace he didn’t want to go. “But what’s happening seems more than physical.”

Another nod. “A certain… ruthlessness?”

“Right again.”

“That’s part of it. As your recuperative abilities increase, your empathy diminishes.”

“So it’s not just me.”

“No. It’s the Ally, or whatever infinitesimal fragment of it remains with this world. To be the Defender you must not only be physically resilient but you must have a singleness of purpose. As you’ve so painfully discovered, the Ally cares not a whit for us as individuals, only that we survive as a species to keep this corner of reality sentient.”

“‘A spear has no branches.’” The phrase tasted bitter.

“Correct. Nor should said spear have any concern beyond hitting the target.”

Jack shook his head. So that was why he’d considered setting out the shaped IEDs anyway, even if it meant sacrificing an innocent driver. And why he’d been kicking himself on the way home for not doing it.

“How do you fight that? How do you resist something that sneaks up on you and gets into your head and changes your perspective?”

Glaeken sighed. “With great difficulty. Because you don’t feel it. You think it’s right and natural. You think it’s you. And in a way, it is. There’s a darkness in all of us that will gladly use the end to justify any means.”

“What you call ‘darkness,’ I call the brain.”

“Ah, science. Stealing the mysteries from life.”

“More like providing an antidote for magic.”

“But ‘darkness’ is so much more picturesque, so much more evocative.”

“You can’t get much darker than the human brain. It’s got no conscience. It wants what it wants when it wants it, but most of all it wants to survive, and will do whatever’s necessary to preserve itself. But then there’s the mind…”

“That which makes us sentient, which sees a bigger picture, a different perspective. You can’t allow the darkness-or your brain-to overrule your mind.” He shook his head. “But it’s not easy. Back in the First Age, a number of us were chosen to lead the battle against the Seven-when Rasalom still counted himself in their number. Some of us succumbed to the influence, willing to sacrifice strings of innocent villages in order to win a single battle, becoming nearly indistinguishable from those we were fighting.”

Jack thought of Glaeken’s love for his wife and his continued devotion to her demented shell.

“You seemed to have succeeded.”

“The best weapon is awareness. Knowing that your perspectives and values are being subverted forces you to question yourself. Preserve the real you early on, and that is the person who will prevail.”

Jack slipped into his jacket. “I still don’t want to subject anyone to my presence tonight.”

Glaeken smiled. “See? You’re winning the battle already.”

“What about tonight’s battle? You still sense him out there?”

Glaeken’s smile faded as he nodded.

Shit.

Jack took the elevator down and trudged out into the storm. The falling snow muffled the sounds of the city. He’d garaged the car before coming to Glaeken’s. The trunk had a special lock and he had the only keys. The Nuckateague evidence would be safe until he disposed of it.

A cab cruised by but he let it go. He lived twenty-some blocks from here. Might as well walk. To Julio’s? Nah. Just home. He always had beer in the fridge.

He hoped the walk would tire him. Fat chance. He had a feeling he wouldn’t sleep much tonight. Probably stay up listening to the radio for word of a survivor in Nuckateague.

Jack couldn’t stand the fact that this wasn’t over. It had to be over.

His phone rang. He checked the display: Gia.

“Hi. Home safe?”

“No. We’ve decided to spend the night at Weezy’s.”

No! He resisted an urge to shout into the phone.

“Bad idea.”

A pause, then, “Why do you say that?”

“The farther you and Vicky are from that kid, the better.”

“He’s just a baby. And Vicky has such a great effect on him, we figured it would make things a whole lot easier for Weezy if we stayed.”

Jack’s turn to pause. Maybe it was okay if they stayed. He didn’t see how anyone in the Order could connect Weezy with the baby. Still, he had a bad feeling about that child, that it was some sort of lightning rod for disaster.

“Stop over,” Gia said.

“Maybe I’ll do that.”

Even though he wouldn’t be good company, he wanted to stay close to Gia and Vicky. So he’d do more than stop by. If they were sleeping over, so would he.

After an endless series of heaves and lurches and lunges, the cow had managed to help slide him across her threshold into light and warmth. At least he assumed it was warm. He’d lost all feeling.

“Lord, you’re all but frozen. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to have to cut you out of those wet clothes. There’s not much left to them anyway. Mostly charred rags.”

During the next few minutes he felt himself rolled left and right as he assumed his tattered clothing was being ripped or cut away.

“Don’t you worry about me staring at your bum or your privates. I got what they call wet AMD-macular degeneration. You’re mostly a blur to me.”

He wasn’t worried about that. Survival was his concern.

She left him, then returned. He felt a blanket fall over him.

“You’re gonna have to stay there on the rug for now, I’m afraid. No way we’re gonna get you up on the couch. But this here’s an electric blanket. It’ll warm up shortly and start raising your temperature.”

Good. Warmth. He’d thought he’d never be warm again.

“What happened to you? I heard an explosion and saw something light up out on the water. That you? Your boat blow up?”

Exactly what had happened, but he could not imagine how. He’d been free. The burning house had been a glow fading in his wake when something shot out of the darkness and struck the rear of the boat, hurling him through the air and into the water. He remembered nothing until he washed up on this shore.

“Well, whatever happened, you need a doctor and a hospital, especially for that hand. From what I can see it’s all charred, and I guess that’s good because it’s not bleeding, but that stump’s gonna need specialist care.”

No! He was too weak. He’d be vulnerable in a hospital. Defenseless.