Neal Barrett Jr. - The Prophecy Machine

Finn shook his head. “It's a sorrowful tale. That one man could cause such misery in his life. I fully understand why you've loathed the Nuccis so long. You have greatly suffered at their hands.”

“Anyone who knows them suffers at their hands. You're aware of that as well.”

Indeed, Finn thought, and I'll suffer yet until Letitia's out of there. He looked past Nicoretti at the crowd. They were silent now, for no new tremors had come from the house. As any crowd will do, if there's little of a tragic nature to behold, they soon become restless and bored.

There was no sign of the Crimson Lancers Volunteers, and Finn wondered if they'd marched in disorder on the house. If they had …

Bracing himself on two hands and a leg, he tried to pull himself up. He made it for a moment, cold sweat beading on his brow, then sharp pain drove him down again.

“I told you,” Nicoretti said. “No one listens to their doctor, they know it all, they do.”

“You could help me up, Doctor , I'd listen to that.”

“Help you cause greater damage to your leg? Not on your life, son. I won't betray my craft.”

Finn glared at the man, drew a breath for another try.

“One thing I want to know. You and the Foxers. You're together on this. I knew it from the time you- saved me from them, but I don't know why. I'm not buying that they just happen to hate the Nuccis too.”

“Ridiculous. I wouldn't get near one of the brutes.”

“Because they're Newlies?”

“Because I don't like 'em, is all.”

“You don't mind Bowsers.”

“I'll hire a Bullie to pull a cart, but I'm not taking him to lunch.”

“I'm not as far from home as I thought.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Just what it-”

A sudden great vibration shook the ground again, stronger, more awesome than before. Nicoretti fell. The crowd began to shriek, and half of them toppled to the ground.

“Help me, damn you,” Finn said. “Get me on my feet!”

“I'm down here myself, boy, didn't you notice that?”

“Sabatino, give me a hand-”

Finn glanced behind him, but the man wasn't there. The tin hats they'd worn were gone-Sabatino had taken Finn's too.

“He knows you're crippled up good,” Nicoretti grinned. “He's gone in to get that Newlie for himself.”

“No. He's gone for his father. And not to get him out, I'll wager.”

Finn struggled to stand, fell twice, then again. The fourth time worked, but the world kept whirling around.

“You won't make it,” Nicoretti said.

“Wait out here and see.”

“I was truthful to you, lad. You didn't give me my due.”

Finn looked at him. “That's what you're asking? I can't tell you what's in there. I couldn't if I tried.”

“Damn lie,” Nicoretti said, “you could if you weren't a cheat.”

“It's not a lie, Doctor, it's just the awful truth is what it is.”

He turned and hobbled feebly toward the house, dragging one leg, cursing Sabatino with every breath. On the way he passed the Bowsers, Pugnose and Mean-eyes, dragging a colorful awning in their wake. They growled at Finn, and Finn growled back …

Finn's return to the house, to the howl and the clamor and the din, to the shriek and the thunder in his head, was the longest journey of his life. Nicoretti's splint, a clever and torturous device, pricked, punctured, pinched his tender flesh, and ground one bone against the next with every agonizing step.

Still, Good ever springs from Bad, lessons Finn learned as a child in the Crafters Church of Meticulous Care. A man who's lost his right hand can give his extra glove to a man who's lost his left. He who's lost his sight can use his books to build a bed. Even Death itself has lasting benefits-Joy, Peace, Love. Or, if nothing else, a very nice nap …

Finn, then, found the excruciating pain in his foot overwhelmed the awesome emanations from the house. Even in the kitchen, where the force from this grim, indomitable machine nearly brought him to his knees, he could tolerate the thing if he kept one foot on the ground.

With desperation as a well-meaning friend, it took Finn little time at all to learn how he might survive in his search for Letitia Louise.

The kitchen was a graveyard of patched, broken, sooty pans and pots. Big pots, little pots, pots of every sort. Kettles made of iron, rusty and red, skillets heavier than lead.

Working with his roll of silver wire, he hurriedly fashioned a garment for the battle to come. The first thing he chose was a thick black kettle for his head. It smelled of Squeen's cooking, but it brought the fierce radiation to a level he could stand.

When he was done, Finn was a kitchen unto himself. Hardly a knight in helm, armor and mail, but one makes do, as they say.

Before he left, he grabbed a collection of knives, some that were reasonably sharp, some that would scarcely cut butter in the sun. A pocketful of candles and a lamp full of fat.

“I'm coming, Letitia,” he said to himself. “Don't be frightened when you see me, love, for I look like a peddler hung with his wares …”

The dining room was in horrid disarray. Table, chairs, dishes and food were crushed into the floor. Finn felt a chill at the sight. The dark extrusion had clearly had its way with the tableware, then rolled into the hall grinding everything to pulp.

The stairs were still intact, no worse than before. He hesitated, drew a deep breath, then ran up as quickly as he could, knowing what a tremor would do if it should catch him there.

Not much more, I suppose, if it catches me anywhere …

The climb took a toll on his foot, but there was little he could do about that. The room where he and Letitia had slept had disappeared. The hallway was full of debris: walls, floors, bits of ratty carpet, everything tattered and shredded.

Through a gap in the wall he saw a familiar path, a way he and Sabatino had come through before.

“What are you up to now?” he said aloud, as if the younger Nucci could hear. “You'd better be minding your affairs and not mine.”

Finn gave little credit to Nicoretti's nasty hint. Sabatino was not after Letitia, Finn was sure of that. Still, it wasn't the kind of drivel he liked to hear-

A shadow crossed the darkness just ahead. Finn stood perfectly still. Nothing. Whatever it was, it didn't move again. He took another cautious step … Then, with no warning at all, the floor ahead buckled, splintered, and vanished in the darkness far below.

Finn wrapped his arms about a post and held on. The wall shrieked as its timbers twisted out of shape, gave way, and tumbled in the pit that had taken the floor in its maw.

No way forward, then. No way back. Only a small crawlway, a tunnel the machine had yet to touch.

No matter where it leads, there's no place else to go …

Dropping very slowly to his knees, he nearly passed out from the pain. His foot didn't much care for the motion, and instantly let him know.

Once down, he was sure he would never move again. The foot was bad enough, without the encumbrance of skillets, pots, kettles and pans.

He made his way slowly, ever aware of the thrumming hum of the frightful machine.

The tunnel opened abruptly into a larger room. Finn inched forward, pushing his lamp ahead. Everything was familiar in a sense. Surely he'd come this way before, or imagined that he did. The wedge of slated roof that nosed out of the floor, the window on the ceiling where a window shouldn't be. Shreds of wallpaper hanging limply from the wall, a shattered bit of doorway that-

“You must be the infamous Master Finn. The one who runs off without a thought for his friends …”

“Julia?”