F Wilson - The Dark at the End

The eyes… that was it. As blue as ever, but the Master of the Universe look was gone. Their usual ice had melted, leaving just… eyes.

“Yes, Thompson? What is it?”

His itty-bitty German accent hadn’t changed, but what happened to “Mister”? Ever since they’d met he’d called him Mister Thompson.

Hank shrugged. “Just stopping by to see what’s new in the world of the Ancient Fraternal Septimus Order.”

Drexler’s eyes widened as he took a quick step forward. “Why do you ask? Have you heard anything? What have you heard?”

Whoa. His face was all uncertainty and hunger now. What the hell was going on?

“Nothing. Just sort of wondering if you folks have any more Internet tricks up your sleeve. One that’ll last a little longer. Like maybe permanent.”

“It wasn’t a ‘ trick.’ And it wasn’t designed to be permanent, just long enough…” His voice trailed off.

“Yeah, just long enough for what? At first you said the Internet was all that was standing between the One and the Change. Then you mentioned some lady. Which was it?”

“It didn’t work. That’s all that matters.”

“No, it’s not. Not by a long shot. Things are pretty much back the way they were. My Kickers are just hanging around instead of going out and gathering up converts who don’t know what to do with themselves without the Internet.”

“Your precious Kickers,” Drexler said, looking like he’d just bitten into a lemon. “They’re just tools. As are you.”

That stung-maybe because it hit a little too close to home.

“Watch it. We don’t answer to anyone, especially your lame Order.”

“We all answer to someone. And we expect at least a modicum of loyalty in return. But sometimes it turns out to be a one-way street, and expectations aren’t met.”

What was he talking about?

“You mean the Change?” Bringing the Internet down was supposed to clear the way to start the Change. But it hadn’t. “You telling me there’s gonna be no Change?”

That would mean all that Internet business had been for nothing. The Change was supposed to be bad news for everyone except those who helped bring it on. Like Hank and Drexler and the high-ups in his Order. They were supposed to be the One’s right-hand men when he took over.

Drexler’s thin smile was pure condescension. “Oh, the Change will come. There’s no stopping it. It will take all of humanity by surprise.” He took a step closer. “And you, Hank Thompson, might be the most surprised of all.”

Hank felt like he’d been punched.

“What? What are you talking about?”

Without replying, Drexler turned away and removed his white suit coat from the closet. He shrugged into it, grabbed his black rhino-hide cane, and strode to the door. Hank grabbed his arm as he passed.

“Hey, I asked you something-”

Drexler batted his wrist with the silver head of the cane, sending a shock wave up to Hank’s shoulder. Hank released his grip and stood rubbing his arm as Drexler stepped out into the hall and disappeared without a backward glance.

But his final words hung in the air.

And you, Hank Thompson, might be the most surprised of all.

What the hell did that mean?

Jack stopped at Tram’s laundry off Canal Street and showed him the bomber jacket. Tram squinted against the smoke from his unfiltered Pall Mall as he inspected the ruined lining of the sleeve. He was on the far side of sixty and as a younger man had lost the lower half of his right leg to a Viet Cong finger charge. He’d hired Jack a while back to help him with a mob problem he’d been pushed into.

“Much blood.”

“Tell me about it.”

He poked a finger through the bullet hole and eyed Jack. “Yours?”

Jack nodded. He’d gone home, found an insulated Windbreaker, then trained down here.

“Can’t clean,” Tram said, shaking his head. “But can fix hole and sew new sleeve liner.”

“Okay on the liner, but leave the holes.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Eh?”

“A reminder.”

Tram’s smile revealed a mouth crowded with canary-yellow teeth. “Yes. Reminder is good.” He pointed down to where his right leg was steel and plastic. “Makes one more careful.”

From Tram’s he walked up to Canal Street and caught a cab over to Doc Hargus’s place. He’d called from home and the doc was in. Doc’s office was his apartment, a third-floor walk-up. He’d had a little substance abuse problem back in the day. Okay, a big problem and he’d lost his license before he’d cleaned up. His only vice now was beer, and that in moderation.

He still practiced on the QT, treating injuries and overdoses and things people didn’t want part of the public record. Too bad, because his portly physique, deep voice, and Wilford Brimley mustache inspired trust and confidence.

“What’re you running on me?” he said after Jack had stripped to the waist and he’d removed Bill’s dressing.

Odd question.

“Not running anything. What’re you talking about?”

Doc pulled on a pair of latex gloves and removed one of the butterflies, peeling both ends at once toward the middle.

“Didn’t I tell you over the phone I couldn’t stitch up any wound over twenty-four hours old?”

“Yeah.”

“And you told me this happened just this morning, right?”

“Right.”

“Bullshit.”

Jack tensed, feeling a niggle of annoyance. “What do you mean?”

Doc pointed to the wound. “I can’t suture this. It’s already started to knit.”

Jack craned his neck and looked. The wound still looked bloody and angry to him.

“That’s just the butterflies holding it together.”

Doc looked at him over his glasses. “I think I’ve seen a few more of these than you, Jack.”

“Okay, no argument there, but Doc, I swear: I got grazed at around ten o’clock this morning. Why would I lie?”

Doc looked at him, then adjusted his glasses and leaned closer to the wound. He studied it for a few seconds, then straightened, shaking his head.

“Yeah. Good question. Why would you? But Jack… that’s at least two days old-” His hand flashed up as Jack opened his mouth to protest. “I’ll rephrase: It’s got at least two days’ worth of healing there. If, as you say, this happened this morning, well, you tell me what vitamins and herbs you’re taking because you’ve suddenly developed some super healing powers.”

Jack went cold as he heard Glaeken’s voice echo in his head.

Wounds heal much more quickly than you’d imagine… a scratch like that would heal almost immediately.

Jack’s wound hadn’t healed “almost immediately,” but Doc said it was already days into the process, though only hours had passed.

“You okay?” Doc said. “You don’t look so hot. Never known you to mind the sight of blood-even your own.”

“I’m okay.”

Big lie.

Glaeken seemed to be failing, and here Jack was developing the healing powers the old guy had once possessed. Pretty obvious that Jack, as the Heir to the Defender post, was being prepared to step into Glaeken’s shoes. How long had this healing thing been going on? If Jack hadn’t been hurt, he still wouldn’t know about it. It could only mean Glaeken’s demise was imminent. How long did the old guy have?

“I’ll replace the butterflies,” Doc was saying, “even though it hardly needs them at this point. Pretty good job of closing that wound. Who did it?”

“Some guy.”

I don’t want this, Jack thought. I do not want this.

But no one had asked. No one had given him a choice.

“Oy. You’re trying to start the next world war?”