The Paladin Prophecy

by Mark Frost

  So the mind pictures still work—stronger than ever—but using them kicks my ass. It took him five minutes to recover. Unsteady on his feet, he walked back into the terminal and bought two sandwiches from a snack stand. His flight had already begun boarding; a line formed at the Jetway.

  He stepped onto the plane and found his seat two-thirds of the way back: window, right side, looking over the wing. He unzipped his carry-on and took out his iPod and earbuds. He considered checking his iPhone for messages, then remembered Nando’s warning and thought better of it.

  Boarding didn’t take long; the flight was less than half full. Olds mostly, business drones in dull suits, zombied out and preoccupied. Will leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to turn off the loop running through his head: Who are these men, and what do they want with me and my family?

  #49: WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS, JUST BREATHE.

  He turned on the iPod and clicked a mash-up Mom had given him to use for studying or meditation. Ocean surf and soothing nature sounds were mixed into low ambient musical phrases with pan flute, acoustic guitar, and light percussion.

  The music helped. Will’s hands relaxed their death grip on the arms of his seat. He needed to let go of the entire nightmarish day. Needed a quiet, uneventful flight to restore something like sanity so he could face tomorrow.

  He barely noticed the voice at first, a deep baritone humming in tune to the music. It grew steadily louder but blended so seamlessly with the melody, he assumed it had always been in the mix and he’d never noticed it before.

  Until it spoke to him. “Just breathe, nice and slow. Oldest trick in the book. That’s the ticket, Will.”

  Low, gravelly, that same piquant accent. But the guy was in a decidedly better humor than earlier that evening, when he’d dropped Will off behind the house. “Stay in your seat, mate. Eyes closed. Don’t give the game away.”

  Will’s eyes flew open. The seat next to him was empty. So were the two across the aisle. He leaned over and looked up the aisle. Ten rows ahead, from an aisle seat, a man’s hand signaled a thumbs-up. He wore a weathered leather flight jacket. A heavy black boot, laced with faded red flames, rested in the aisle.

  Will shot back into his seat. So much for an uneventful flight.

  “Steady on, now,” said the voice. “Keep your cool and we’ll be aces.”

  “Who are you?” whispered Will. “Why are you following me?”

  “Can’t hear you, mate. Doesn’t work that way. Sit tight. Be back in a tick.”

  Will looked down the aisle again. The Prowler Man’s seat was empty. What was the deal with this whack job?

  One last passenger, a grotesquely overweight woman, wobbled down the aisle. She was bulging out of purple velour warm-ups and dragging a small floral-print carry-on. Thin greasy hair fell sloppily around a full-moon face that made her features look tiny. Darting, beady eyes located her seat, four rows in front of Will, across the aisle. She plopped down, panting with exertion.

  A flight attendant’s voice came over the speakers, saying they were ready for departure and that all electronic devices should be turned off.

  Will yanked out his earbuds and switched off his iPod. The plane rocked back from the gate and cabin lights dimmed as they rolled away. Will looked again; Prowler dude still hadn’t returned to his seat.

  Maybe he’s not real. I’m just imagining him. Some kind of holographic side effect of creeping insanity.

  Will closed his eyes and pictured what he’d glimpsed earlier on the back of the man’s jacket. A few images shifted in front of his eyes. One of them was the silhouette of an animal, but he couldn’t nail it down.

  The plane lurched forward, accelerating for takeoff, shoving Will back against his seat. The flaps pivoted down and the plane lifted sharply into the air. The city of Santa Barbara quickly receded, the coastline a necklace of lights. The plane banked out over the ocean, then turned back to the east. He wondered if their flight path would take them over Ojai.

  Welcome but unexpected relief flooded through him. He’d escaped his pursuers, whoever they were, for the moment. He tried to quiet his mind and ride the euphoric high for as long as it lasted.

  The plane leveled. A bell tone sounded. The attendant came back on the PA, saying it was safe to use electronics. Will popped the buds in and played the same song again. No voice this time. He raised the iPod to his mouth.

  “Are you still there? Hellooo?”

  “You look a bit daft talking into your iPod, mate. Folks’ll think you’ve got loose kangaroos in the top paddock.” Will still heard the man in his earbuds.

  “Do you have any idea what I’ve been through today?” Will asked out loud.

  “A good deal more than you know.”

  “I am this close—this close—to a complete, totally justified meltdown.”

  “Don’t chuck a wobbly, mate. Slide your seat back. All the way—that’s it, nice and easy.”

  Will eased back into his reclined seat. The man leaned forward; he was sitting one seat to the left behind him. Will saw his rugged profile less than two feet away, draped in shadow. His eyes were shielded by his aviator shades but the scars were there, a raised and livid road map crisscrossing the left side of his face.

  “You’re from Australia, right?” Will said.

  “No, mate, I’m a Kiwi. New Zealand. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

  “Of course I’ve heard of it.”

  “Bully for you. If you’ve shaken them, maybe this will be an ‘uneventful’ flight. There’s some crooked weather ahead. Could give us a few bumps.”

  “So you do weather reports, too.”

  “A full-service operation.”

  “So who are you?”

  “Name’s Dave. From here on out, keep one eye peeled at all times. Expect the worst, hope for the best. Once they’ve got you in their sights, they never let up.”

  “Are you referring to the men in the caps, or those ‘things’ that tried to eat me earlier?”

  Dave kept completely still as he talked. “Both.”

  “Can you at least tell me what those things were?”

  “A species of three-legged lasher. I’d say either gulvorgs or burbelangs.”

  “Those New Zealand animals?” Will asked sarcastically.

  “Don’t carry on like a bloody pork chop, kid. I’m saying that’s what they looked like. An opinion supported by the fact that I could actually see ’em.” Dave tapped his dark glasses.

  “And why would whatever they are be chasing me?”

  “We obviously shouldn’t open that particular can of worms at the moment—”

  “Obviously in what way?”

  “Obviously for reasons upon which it would currently be unwise for me to elaborate. Let me ask you this: Did you smell sulfur or smoke before they attacked? Did you see a round window in midair or a ring of fire—”

  “A ring of fire. In the hills. I thought it was the sunset.”

  “No, mate. That was a High-Altitude Drop. Some of their heaviest nasties from the Never-Was. Dropped in from a great height like daisy cutters. Serious spagbog.”

  Will paused. “Do you speak a different language in New Zealand?”

  “They have ships—airships. Not like ours. You can’t see ’em, or only rarely—” Dave caught himself and sighed. “More than you need to know. The truth is, I just drew the mission this morning. Last minute, no proper briefing. Haven’t even had time to review your file.”

  “My file?”

  Dave took from his jacket pocket a small transparent glass cube. Inside floated a pair of gleaming black cubes. They looked like dice without dots, suspended in air, revolving at different angles and speeds from one another.

  “That’s my file?” asked Will.

  Lights beamed from the black cubes, and three-dimensional images appeared above the large cube: two groups of hideous, slathering trilegged beasts.

  “Those are burbelangs,” said Dave, pointing at one group. “And those are gulvorgs.�
��

  “Good God.”

  “From here on out, Will, you’d better believe I’ve got your best interests at heart, or the mission could go south faster than a bucket of prawns in the sun—”

  “If you think you’re helping me by not telling me the truth, then you’ve got a lot to learn about me.”

  Dave stared at him hard for a moment. “Agreed.”

  “Can I see that?” asked Will, pointing at the cube.

  “Not in this lifetime,” said Dave.

  The images vanished. Dave stuck the cube back into his pocket, leaned forward between the seats, and gave Will a longer, appraising look.

  “Given the resources they’ve committed,” said Dave, “we have to assume that you’re their target. That’s why I led them away. Took hours to shake ’em.”

  “So what kind of mission are you on?”

  “Escort and protect. Just be grateful they didn’t tag you with a Ride Along. Don’t get me started on those beauties.”

  “What’s a Ride Along?”

  “That’s what they turned your mum with, kid.”

  Will felt his stomach turn over. “What does that mean? Is she all right?”

  “No way of knowing right now,” said Dave with surprising gentleness. “I could delve deeper, into a great many things, but the last thing you need now is a lot of Level Twelve intel that could make your head explode.”

  “Then just tell me this … is my dad okay?”

  “I’ll try to find out. I need more information, and you need rest. Get some grub in your belly. Catch a few winks. If things turn ‘eventful,’ the only gear you’ll need’s in that pouch in front of you. Next to the in-flight magazine. Keep an eye out.”

  Will fished around in the seat-back pocket and retrieved a small, rectangular gray pouch. Inside he found a pair of medium-sized sunglasses with plain black retro frames. The lenses had a grayish blue tint like the ones Dave wore.

  “How do these work?” asked Will, leaning back. “Is it like three-D?”

  The seat behind him was empty again.

  Will turned the iPod back up and heard only music: No Dave. He examined the glasses, then put them on. Everything looked exactly the same, only dimmer.

  “It is totally possible that I’ve completely lost my mind,” he muttered.

  But he followed Dave’s advice. He put the glasses away and ate both sandwiches, which were about as moist and flavorful as a drawing of a sandwich. When attendants rolled the beverage cart by, he took two bottles of water and drained them. He pulled the unfinished paperwork for the Center from his bag and filled it out. Then he carefully forged his parents’ signatures on the appropriate lines.

  Will closed his eyes and saw fractured images of his dad’s ruined hotel room. Dad’s last words kept circling back:

  “We’re responsible for this. And the idea that something we did would bring pain or sorrow into your life is the worst feeling your mom and I have ever known.”

  Responsible for what? What had they done? What kind of terrible price had they now paid for it?

  About forty-five minutes into the flight—as they passed over the garish glow of Las Vegas—he managed to drift into a shallow, fitful sleep.

  I spent the whole day dreading going to sleep again … or maybe because I couldn’t wait. Then it felt like I tossed and turned for hours before I could let go. But once I finally dropped off, I was ready.

  I found myself high in the night air, soaring through storm clouds, lit up by bolts of lightning cracking in the distance. I had no more of an idea where I was, but this time I seemed to know exactly where to find him.

  I saw something small and dark sailing far ahead of me against the clouds.

  An airplane.

  SABOTAGE

  A jolt of turbulence woke him. Will felt a presence to his left and turned, expecting to find Dave. Instead he found the obese woman in purple standing in the aisle, motionless, staring at him. Her face was in shadow; her eyes were pinpricks of dark, gleaming light.

  “Can I help you?” Will blurted.

  The woman blinked, inert, as blank as a stone. The smell coming off her, as if she hadn’t showered in weeks, made Will’s eyes water. Another jolt rocked the plane, harder this time, and they rode it as if cresting a wave. The woman’s lips chewed around but no words came out. She turned and shuffled down the aisle with a peculiar waddling gait.

  Will glanced around. There was no sign of Dave. Acting on instinct, he fished the sunglasses from his pocket, slipped them on, and leaned into the aisle.

  Will saw a glowing nimbus of light around the fat woman, sickly and green, like flickering fluorescence. The outline of her body wiggled and squirmed like a bagful of angry cats, bulging out at nauseating angles.

  Will lifted the glasses. The woman looked normal again. Or as close as five four and three hundred pounds stuffed into purple velour five sizes too small could get to normal. She walked past her seat to the lavatory, opened the door, and squeezed her bulk inside. Her hand shot out and yanked the door shut.

  “Dave?” whispered Will. “Dave!”

  No answer. Will grabbed the arms of his seat as lightning flashed in the distance, flaring a jagged skyline of ominous clouds. He looked at his watch: They were less than an hour from their scheduled arrival in Denver, flying over the Rockies now, closer to the storm.

  A bell toned. A flight attendant announced that the captain had turned on the seat belt sign and everyone should return to their seats. Will fastened his belt and yanked it tight. Then he leaned over and looked down the aisle again.

  Water or some kind of fluid was seeping out from under the lavatory door.

  Will threw off his belt, stood, and moved forward. The floor rolled under him like a fun-house barrel. He reached the door and planted his feet on the soaked carpet. The status panel by the handle read OPEN. Will gripped the knob and quickly pulled the door open. Lights flickered beside the mirror.

  Lying in a deflated pile, crumpled on the floor, were the woman’s purple warm-ups. Fluids leaked from the arms, legs, and neck. The right arm of the suit extended into the toilet. A loud sucking sound filled the room from the bottom of the bowl, stuck open in the flushing position. That same nauseating smell he’d noticed before hung in the air.

  He saw motion inside the suit. A shape the size of a football slithered from the torso, down the arm, and out the open commode. The purple suit collapsed and lay flat. Then, in a single move, something yanked the suit down into the hole and out of sight. Something fleshy and loose slithered with it; it looked like the discarded skin of an enormous snake, studded with tangled hanks of hair.

  The disk in the toilet snapped shut. The sucking sound cut off. A flight attendant appeared behind Will, pulling the door from his hands.

  “Sir, you need to go back to your seat,” she said.

  “I saw water coming out under the door,” he said.

  The attendant glanced at the wet carpet underfoot. The plane jolted. “We’ll take care of it,” she said. “Please go back to your seat. Right now.”

  Will saw no point in arguing. Using seat backs to steady himself, he worked his way down the aisle as the plane bucked and swayed.

  “I might need to throw up now,” he mumbled.

  Will glanced back and saw the attendant shut the door and head toward her station. He passed the fat woman’s row and saw her floral carry-on under the seat. He grabbed the handle and brought it with him to his own row as the plane dipped into a hard pocket of air. The cheap bag felt weightless. A price tag hung on the flimsy handle. He zipped the bag open. Empty. The roll-on was a prop. Had that pathetic creature even been a person?

  “What did you see?” asked Dave.

  The man was suddenly standing beside him. Will described what he’d seen.

  “A Carrier,” said Dave. “Bugger’s luck, they snuck a Carrier on board.”

  Another flash of lightning—closer, brighter—drew Will’s attention to the window. Sparks spit out from
the rear of the engine below the right wing. He turned back to Dave, but he was gone. Will reached for the glasses in his pocket, put them on, and turned to the window.

  After his shock wore off, he counted six of them. They looked like crazed animated sacks of cement or stunted life-forms dredged from the depths of the sea.

  A Carrier: And these are what she was carrying?

  Squat, repulsive, rubbery plugs of flesh. Bushel-basket mouths tangled with razor-sharp fangs. A sturdy curved horn shot from the center of each pale forehead between wide, pebbled white eyes. Four stout limbs sprouted from the ribbed, sectioned torsos, equipped with curved talons. Nightmarish creatures designed—or customized—for the purpose of wreaking mindless destruction.

  Exactly what they were trying to do right now to the plane’s right engine.

  Will lifted his glasses. He saw nothing but the sparking engine and empty wing. Dropping the glasses back over his eyes, Will saw the awful writhing swarm again. He took off the glasses and turned them over in his hands.

  Got to be some sort of projection system inside the frame that throws a moving image onto the lenses, Will thought. I can’t be seeing this. It’s a trick, a special effect.

  But the frames looked solid and seamless, incapable of hiding technology sophisticated enough to manufacture what he was seeing. He was considering taking them apart with his Swiss Army knife when he heard an alarming, sputtering choke outside. A burst of sparks spewed from the engine, then a stream of dark smoke.

  He fumbled the glasses back on. In a flash of lightning, he saw all six creatures attacking the engine housing in a frenzy, hammering away at it with tooth, horn, and claw. The plane dropped into another pocket of turbulence that lifted Will out of his seat. He refastened and tightened his seat belt. The creatures remained glued to the engine through every buck and tilt. Will realized their hideous torsos were studded with suction cups that clamped to the metal.

  They were moments away from tearing the engine to pieces.