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He heard sounds and walked toward them. As they became legible, he felt his feet start to slip. A sheet of black ice covered the slightly off-level floor. It was then that she saved him a second time.

“Close your ears,” she said, “Just take the direction, not the meaning. Keep your mind on something else. Keep it on me.”

His mind resolved and he stood again, the dulling ice gone. He averted the insanity which comes to any untrained ears that capture such unnatural sounds and flipped the safety off his gun.

He rounded a corner and his lighter failed him. The words were still soft but very close now. He could sense their source near him, perhaps right next to him. The darkness was maddening, and he felt his mind start to slip again as his control was slightly lost.

A loud screech surprised him from behind. His instinct grabbed the controls, whipped him around, and put a bullet at the source of the wicked prattle. A window shattered outward, the layers of black paint and papier-mâché cracking outward in shattered vase shards. Light flooded the room and he could finally see the shuddering, shifting form before him.

It was a man, or was once a man, from what he could tell from behind the prismatic fog between them. He was small and skinny, ribs jutting out from decorated flesh bared by his robe. He could see that this man’s eyes were open and alert as the string of unhealthy syllables slipped from his lips.

He raised his gun and fired Three times.

The bullets buffeted against some unseen force in the damnable cloud between them, and three sharp cracks let him know that each slug had found a burnt-wood surface rather than soft human insides. The man seemed to be shifting as if underwater right in front of him. Focus would not come from any angle he ventured. A quick glance outside showed a dozen more blackened serpentine trails into the city. The man’s stream of babble stopped.

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“So there is training in you after all, Sighted One,” Cole spoke, his mental net in place, the clock ticking. He had to end the man soon or else his trap would disintegrate and the man would simply die instead of trapped into hours upon hours of milked pain.

“Whatever you’re doing to me, it ends now,” he replied.

“I quite agree,” Cole smirked, and quickly thrust forward out of his pocket.

The tainted man moved fast, and his foresight glinted forward. Susan appeared behind the small vile man in a corona of unbearable white light, silhouetting the twisted form as he sprang forth. He fired on impulse and heard another crack of splintering wood.

Warmth spread from his chest, like brandy on a cold night. He sat down heavily as Cole mauled him over. As his head smarted against the blackened floor, he could see fire smoldering in Cole’s eyes. Weight was on his chest again, and a stream of crimson ran out of the tattooed man’s mouth down onto his cheek. The phantom-demon sensations caught up with him. He jerked the man off with a grunt and stood.

The black ice was on the floor again, making him stumble, and sit back down. The warmth in his chest was spreading downward now, urine pressed at his groin. He looked down and saw a growing red rose blossoming on his shirt. He looked at Cole, who still lay prone on the ground, and saw the gleaming narrow blade of a black dagger in one hand.

Cole’s hardened face showed hate, surprise, agony, and joy swirling in his eyes. A breeze came in from the window and rustled dust and ash. He could hear a faint whining sound and looked to Cole again. A small hole flecked the very center of his throat. He peered up and could see a large divot in the back of his neck. Chunks of bone were shattered and angling up out of the red jelly. Cole lay still, still glaring with burning eyes.

The warmth was now surrounding him. The evil man blinked and tried to say something. Wheezing air escaped through the hole in his throat. Cole lay there staring at him with an odd look of anticipation. What’s going on in that brain? Disconnected from his body but not quite dead.

He figured he would never know, until Susan walked in.

“The blade was poisoned, and he wants you to die before he does,” she said. “That way he can use you to heal himself.”

A streak of panic shot through him. Cole’s whine grew louder momentarily. Susan was beside him now. It was impossible, but he could smell her.

His voice had left him. He looked to her with his crazy eyes for comfort. She was soft and lush and calming. She was the shot of bourbon before bedtime, she was six hours of starlight; she was funnybones and lazylegs.

He looked to Cole and saw the mystery in his eyes gone, the sheen dried to the dead husks like a contact lens left out overnight. He was gone. It was over.

He let go then, and it was a short trip to her, filled with light, sound, and color. She was there for him and they finally embraced, and found that their dreams were now a reality.


END



©2002 Brian Miller