by Enoch Enns
He turned to the book's front, its title and author all passing in vision and he focused in to the small imprint at the bottom-- everything around him blacking out and words quickly fading.
Mx3.
His eyes opened. What did Mx3 have to do with philosophy? They were a technological branch, weren't they? The same ones that did his Hand-Pal. But there was no such place labeled on his map. Without it, he had no idea as where to start. He needed answers. He needed to talk.
He needed an illusionate.
Boulevards, posters, and shops lay in wreck down each hall he wandered. If he was to get any answers by which to proceed, he needed persuasion. Running wasn't doing him any good and he felt a sense of calling to bear such a heavy burden. He was determined to do everything in his power to save her. Wondering the vast emptiness, he stumbled across a wood works store. He couldn't help the recollections. He saw the wood works and he saw her. The thoughts fueled his veins and his fists clenched. No more running, Locke. Your cowardice ends here. It ends now.
He stepped inside. Not to delve deeper into memory, not to trace her every predicted step, but he moved toward the back where resided a door. Something was drawing him in. More than instinct; stronger than intuition. His feet moved across the splinters and shattered glass of abandonment. Carls pressed against the rear door and slid in. A florescent light lit the room brightly (an odd trait for what he was accustomed to). All along the four walls were shelves and shelves of merchandise-- and by no means wood work. It was ammunition and first aid.
Someone had sought refuge and accommodated an arsenal. A single gun lay between two shelves. An unknown maker and an unknown brand. A gun nonetheless. Its barrel extended to nearly a foot and a half. Its handle was of metal and rubber grip. Four adjustable nods followed the length of the barrel and a single insertion chamber held to one of the sides and a latch to the other. Dark gray. He reached down and picked it up, fumbling to its weight and proportions. Small enough to manage with one hand but big enough to maintain a force worth reckoning. So he found a gun. Now what ammo? No titles were ingrained upon it and it was unarmed. He stalked the shelves finding no security in ammunition. Instead, he found a sack lying on the ground behind the door. Inside it held a few dozen box-shaped projectiles. They fit well enough.
He emerged from the room, the gun across his back and the sack hanging beneath his coat.
“Look at you now,” said a figure before him. It was Xavier, just as before.
“I still remember what happened last time,” Carls replied, implying on the illusionate lured in.
“Don't worry, I'm not here to waste your time, only offer you a bit of help.”
“But they're still coming, aren't they?”
“And isn't that what you want? Regardless, I thought it necessary to inform you of the task you are undertaking. You spoke with Antoinette, didn't you?”
“You either know or you don't. Why are you really here, Xavier?”
“If you plan on saving lives, a bullet to their chest won’t do anything; but it you plan on escaping death, just talking won’t get you anywhere either. It is no coincidence you were led into that room. That gun that you hold is no typical arms. It belonged to a man by the name Lenard Thompson, and he died to keep it hidden.”
“So you're telling me to leave it?”
“No, but be weary of its significance. It was made for a specific purpose—one closely related to what you soon shall meet.”
A distant patter was heard.
“They come for you, Carls. Prepare yourself and remember your true intentions for fighting. Remember the reason you can.”
Can? What did he mean?
“Go now,” Xavier said to him, “And find the man you are looking for.”
“Wait! Where can I--”
It was too late. Xavier had vanished and the illusionate were only getting closer. Carls had cleared the shop and started in their direction.
The Run
He didn't know Mx3, but he knew Brainware and maybe it would be there as a branch corp. Either way, he needed a place to start and a place to run. Xavier's words still welded into his mind in relation to the illusionate pursuing him. I can't take them all on anyway. I need to find a way to separate them. I need a trap. But what kind of trap could he use while on the run? Altogether, things weren't panning in his favor. But still, he ran. I'm ahead of them, and that's all that counts for now.
He reached the foot of an escalator, deciding quickly to take it and claim the second floor. Directionally, he knew only to hold to the main hall he was already on. He hadn't the time to look too intently over his course of procedure. The Brainware Corp was just beyond the bend and last extent of hall-- or so he hoped. His feet moved briskly and heart pounded in his chest. He could feel the added weight of his weapon but chose to endure it. It was for the better. He wouldn't let himself face another Fallen One without it. But there was another burden he felt. One deeper than anything he hand known before. Faint, but ever so persistent in its growing. At first he was not certain of its source (for it was so queer an emotion), but then he remembered. He'd used that card and supposedly it had worked. Whatever it did, he could only pray it was lightening her load. He couldn't bear the thought of her suffering steadily bringing her to her death. No. He could not live with that thought. He wouldn't live with it. So long as he had lungs to breath he would do every and anything to keep her safe, or in this case, to save her life.
His foot caught the rise of his energy dropping. He momentarily staggered in movement before regaining speed. Where am I going? I can't keep this up forever and I sure as well don't know where I am going. Left. When in doubt always left. The last thing he wanted was to be running in circles. I can hear them, they're getting closer. So what now? He looked to either side of him for options. He needed a count. Too many and it wouldn't be worth it. He was no superhuman and they were no dummies. If anything, their chemical imbalances made them stronger. But in all sense of the word, they were overcome by the illusion, he was not. And that gave him just enough of an upper hand so as to have hope.
But he had to lose them. All of them but one. Fighting the lack of fitness, Carls spun hard on his heels and into a book shop-- where it was cold and dark. Either a smart or terribly bad idea.
Taking cover behind one of the shelves, he waited for one to pass, quickly shoving the hilt of his gun to the back of its head. The young figure of a man plumped to the ground. So much for stealth, now the rest knew where he was. The cries pierced his ears as he tore from his position and at another wandering illusionate. The two met head on and sent books crashing. Carls' fumbled for his gun as it had been knocked away, his eyes still adjusting to the shadows of his residence. His palms felt the grip as his foe met the metal-- tumbling backward into the dark. Were there just two by now? Had he lost the rest?
He regretted asking. For as he did, the conscious illusionate let out a bellowing cry of outrage. It itself began slamming into the isles of books on either side, hands held tight to its forehead. He'd seen this before. He remembered the last that screamed from some pain within its mind. Only this time, cries called back to it. More were coming. I have to get out of here!
Shuffling to his feet, Carls' made a break for it. Illusionate or not, he didn't have time to sit around and wait. But as he broke the cover of shadows he came to a halt-- at least six more appeared in the distance. His mind yelled “Shoot!” but his heart spoke else-wise. He couldn't in good conscience kill another human being. Not unless it were justifiable. Then again, his life depended upon it. Xavier's words repeated like strikes of lightning as two more fell to the pull of his trigger. I'm sorry, he said to them. More so to himself, for he didn't know if they'd understand. I'm just trying to save my daughter, then I will come for you. The rest seemed to scatter and he took the chance to make a run for it. Sure enough, he was relieved to see the Brainware Corp just around the bend. Thank you, Lord. Now, to find where exactly Mx3 was, if at all, in this building. Or even
if the place had any connections whatsoever to Shaw M. E. Norwick.
He was in before they had noticed, his heavy breathing filling the vacant room. Bent and gasping, he collected himself and took in all that lay inside. The place seemed still in use but void of staff. There had to be someone. It didn't seem right for everyone to just vanish into thin air. There were the illusionate, but not everyone had ended up as them. The group he'd found way back was testament that he was not alone. So what made them different?
His hand slid across the smooth counter-top of the front desk. Still clean; still used. But where is everyone? Why only a few? And why only the acclaimed?
He pressed against the counter. It was as real as anything. He definitely wasn't living in some fantasy. He could smell; he could see and touch and hear. Yes, a faint melody played in the crevice of his mind. Someone was here, and he was determined to find that person. He found it queer that there were no computers or phones. Not but a single pad held the counter's surface (an obvious product of Brainware). It was open to a spreadsheet which displayed names and appointments.
Mike Dyrdrik. His name took the bottom of the list dated for two months ago. He slid his fingers to the second page. The name appeared again midway through, nearly two and a half months ago. The appointee of both was anonymous, labeled only as Mister. It appeared again on the third, fourth, and fifth pages—all to the same room, same man, each about two weeks spread. Maybe it was Norwick, he could not tell.
Behind The Curtain, Another Layer
Third floor.
Second right.
Fourth door on the right.
He stood before it as though some detective in pursuit of a mysterious victim. Or prey. It was altogether unknown. He reached out to the handle, eyes closing to his vision's last mark:
The door, just unlocked, opened up to a balcony centered about a magnificent chandelier. Pews lined the bottom all emptied and bound in plastic. His attention tuned left and down a narrow stairway where he was led to the open chapel. A pedestal held the front stage which was elevated by two steps. A church? A small one perhaps, but it resembled more of a banquet. Flowers, all dried up and shriveled, still clang to their dusty pots. He moved on up to the pedestal. A book lay open upon it. It was the beginning of a new chapter, but even as he tried to read his surrounding suddenly came to life-- a man standing where he stood looking out over this filled pews. The faces gazed blankly at him and instantly he noticed the single figure approaching the back and taking his seat.
The man at the front was none other than Mike Dyrdrik, his enthusiasm radiating to each and every ear. His words were music and yet a blur. The crowd dispersed and soon the two stood alone in conversation.
Dyrdrik and Norwick.
Carls caught himself in the nick of time (having nearly fell through the open door). His face lifted as he beheld the small office room and realigned himself with reality. He hadn't been able to make out their conversation. Only the expression of a matter being urgent. A philosopher, yes, but also a counselor. That, or a trusted friend. But what would Norwick have with a philosophic writer?
The nerves in his spine pinched to the scene unveiled before him. Behind the single office desk slummed a figure in his chair long since moved and with two bullets to his chest. The blood stained the man's formal clothes. His name tag was barely readable, and the title upon his desk etched over in red. The two names conflicted, but the red claimed Shaw Norwick.
Carls took in a deep breath, the level of threat increasing in his mind. Norwick? Wasn't this the philosopher's office? Wasn’t Norwick the one meeting with him?
The door closed shut behind him. Now his mind was playing tricks on him. He did everything he could to fight the panic, his body dropping low to the floor. If this indeed was Norwick, then where's the evidence? Or did Norwick do this?
Too many thoughts, Carls, focus on the task.
He could see the shade of two figures beneath the doors crevice.
Better yet, think of how you are going to get out of here.
The figures moved. Not in, but away. Carls wasn't going to take any chances. He held close to the cover of the desk and waited.
Then the lights went.
In the moments it took to adjust he had already heard the breathing. Not of his own, but something else. But it was too dark-- everything was dark. He could only make out sounds and tension as he was forced to cling onto any bit of human sense he had. His breathing was also escalating. Was this some sort of trap? He heard feet shuffling down the hall. In a flash the lights came back on as a figure burst through the room door, eyes bloodshot. A young, terrorized lady. She was surprised at the sight of Carls and yet reached out to him as though for some pleading escape. Escape from what?
Black, silhouetted hands blotted out the light behind the women and took vicious hold. She screamed in desperate attempts to grab hold of Locke and Locke, for some reason he did not know why, wanted to help. But just as quickly as it had appeared, the hands had vanished-- taking the lady with them. Carls only knew of one thing able to make such a powerful move and sudden appearance. It was no Fallen One, nor a Possessioner, rather a Shem—just like his encounter before.
But it was gone. He heard the distancing pleas as it fled the building. Carls leaned back against the desk, every inch of skin breaking sweat to nervousness. I can't take much more of this, he moaned to the ceiling. But I will if only to save her.
He stood from the corner he'd taken refuge. It was then that a small object caught his eye lying on the floor beside him. There, below the supposed Shaw Norwick laid a tape. He picked it up and withdrew his Hand-Pal, hoping for the best. With the click of a button, the tape unwound and his mind reeled and eyes closed—his mind once again escaping into the vision:
“It's too dangerous!” the man demanded, slamming shut the door behind him. “I can take it no more!” It was the one by the name of Mister (as from the records). Across from him was Shaw M. E. Norwick.
“Calm down!” Norwick replied to the man.
“That's easy for you to say! You didn't mention they would be after you as well. I grow weary and the Big Man is growing impatient!”
“If you break from the deal now we both will die. Now, sit. Let us converse calmly so as to not raise suspicion.”
The man took his seat and a second breath. He was a stout man of broad shoulders. He and Norwick looked much alike, both a typical build of high-held shoulders and a raised chin. But the Mister wore a thick leather coat as though acting as some agent. His hair bore a darker tint, whereas Norwick’s shone orange in a lathered jell.
“What has changed?” Norwick asked of the man.
“Don't go all councilor on me! I'm the one who has the degree, remember that. You are in my chair because I let you.”
An eerie silence befell the room. The two stared at each other until, finally, Norwick stood and paced the room. “Growing impatient, you say? Has he noticed? Has he sent them after you?” The man fumbled with a lighter between his fingers, withdrawing a cigarette from his back pocket.
“Yes, impatient. I just don't see how me being there is helping anything! He's a demon for all I care! Have you not seen what he's done to find it?”
“Indeed, I have seen. That is why you are there.” Norwick lit the cigar and turned to offer his guest one. “I need to predict the pattern of movements so as to ensure its hiding.”
“You don't understand, do you?” the Mister refused. “With him this determined he will stop at nothing. His circle it growing tighter and he is beginning to notice those who are truly in his control. And there are now others...”
“Is that a problem for you, Dyrdrik? You used to be so determined...”
“You watch your words, Norwick. You may be playing as me, but they're getting smarter. My tail is about to get scorched and it'll burn through your end too. His men won’t be coming after my blood, it'll be yours that they'll saver.”
“Threatening me won’t help any,” Norwick replied, a p
uff of smoke leaving his mouth.
“You just sit here atop all my domain and do nothing? I'm beginning to question whether our bargain is being held out on both ends. This isn't worth my life!”
“And I apologize that it has come to that, but we both are in too deep to start doubting each other. I'll tell you what. Go and lead them here. Give yourself the time to escape and I shall end it with me.”
Dyrdrik stood from his chair also. “Sorry, old friend, but I can't leave my family like this. They still wait for me.”
“I understand,” Norwick said, face downcast and shrouded in smoke. “But realize that this will ruin any chance of you recovering your business. And I apologize for that.”
“I am aware. And thank you, Norwick. You don't know how much this means to me--”
“Just one more favor. When you leave, instruct my shareholder on what to do. They are not to have it, not even over my dead body.”
As Far As The Blood Trails
The carpet beneath his feet hid each step—both his and his enemy’s. He strode cautiously down the hall, his eyes more focused on memorizing the doors and turns in case the lights went out. Despite having had the door closed on him, he wondered as to whether they had been trippers or actually real men. Be they real, they could be anywhere and capable of lunging out at him from any corner. Be they not, then he had all the more reason for fear. The place was tormented by a dark creature—a Shem. He recalled the face of the terrorized girl. Where had she come from? Who was she? Why was she there?
