Dead Man Walking

by Zach Adams

  A vague spark fired off somewhere inside his skull but before he could register anything, it vanished.

  Isaac slumped back in his chair, not taking his eyes from the notebook. He recited the summary a few times while tapping the pen on his scalp with each syllable. Nothing.

  Isaac swept the blue book aside and replaced it with the black one. This one was also blank. He began to write something about a spaceship but lost his train of thought. He tossed the notebook on the floor with a growl of frustration.

  Pausing to take a breath, Isaac picked the book back up and stacked it neatly on top of the blue one. He then got up to wander through the stacks, searching for inspiration of some kind.

  “Brown… Burgess… Butcher…” He mumbled to himself as he scanned the bookshelves. Most of the books which stood out to him, he had already read at least a dozen times. He followed the shelves, which he had ensured earlier were all in the correct order and hooked around to the next one.

  On the middle D shelf, he noticed a small arrow drawn in dust. He hadn’t seen it when he had done his rounds just an hour and a half before. It pointed in the direction he was going anyway, so he followed it. At the end of the shelf, he spotted a pair of pages sticking out from the back of an incorrectly-shelved copy of ‘The War of the Worlds’. He removed the book from the shelf.

  “Damn it all, someone’s been tearing pages out again, I’ll have to tell Olivia tomorrow,” Isaac grumbled under his breath as he gently pulled the loose pages out. They were stiff, with wrinkles which seemed to have a new story buried in each crease. The sheets were a shade of yellow that can only be achieved by ancient paper, or at least paper dipped in tea and left to dry.

  Isaac didn’t know of any book in the library that looked this way - and he knew a fair portion of the books in this library.

  He attempted to read the rogue pages, mesmerized by his new discovery. The text was in some foreign or fictional language which resembled musical notation in loops and spirals. In the top left corner of the first page was a slightly faded painting of a person.

  Whether the subject was male or female, he couldn’t quite tell; their delicate yet fiercely angular features lent an androgyny not entirely unlike a young David Bowie, only with scarlet eyes, silver hair, and slightly pointed ears. Isaac felt as though the image was looking through him.

  Underneath, written in the same strange script but steadily warping into English characters, read Næ’zätæmém.

  Isaac stared at the word then moved on to scan the rest of the text, which he was certain was done manually rather than mechanically, wishing to understand what he was seeing.

  Almost as soon as the thought had crossed his mind, the letters seemed to glow for less than a second, and in the time it took Isaac to blink, his brain began to see them in English. Isaac’s pulse began to pick up its pace as he continued to scan the page. Simple words began to transform for his eyes first, but there were many he still couldn’t comprehend. Still, he carefully took in every word as if it were the last story he would ever read.

  Chapter Five: Næ’zätæmém, Part Two

  ERR.

  The evening was silent. It was always somewhere between dawn and dusk in Átrí Nä’lún, but the chill spreading through the moonlit forest and valley was a warning which none within detected. None would realize until too late that, while the evening was endless, this evening would be the end of them all.

  As L’m

  Remember me…

  ERR. Aligning temporal discrepancy.

  As Næ’zätæmém strolled the pale gold streets of the upper city, nestled in the valley north where the colony of the noble phoenix rested. Glittering frost already began to form in his wake, and his skin had lost the soft moonlit quality common to his kind, turning instead to a deathly hue between gray and blue.

  What Næ’zätæmém’s work had built to, with the rebranded Ákhfräl’ürémír waiting among the dendra for his word, was finally at hand. The unaware Æ’géminë slept peacefully in their wood and stone homes. Ideally, he would have preferred to wait until the next phoenix cycle, but circumstances arose which required immediate action. Äl’khäshæ’s capture and expulsion had been a major setback.

  One cannot remake worlds without the ability to adapt, Næ’zätæmém consoled himself. In stillness, all is lost.

  Only one detail remained for him to personally carry out, before his plan could truly commence.

  L’m

  Remember me…

  Re: ERR. Reparation underway.

  Gap compensated.

  Næ’zätæmém approached a door of dendrawood, hung meticulously in magically carved, golden stone. He tapped on the door gently, three times with the tip of his long, even for Æ’géminë, left index finger.

  Märæsälúm and her fondness for her inferiors, always remembering her roots, Næ’zätæmém thought with vague amusement, and laughed softly at his pun. The wooden door was the only one of its kind in the valley, neighbors either constructing theirs of either invisible barriers or standing stones.

  A dim white light appeared at the bottom of the doorway, but no one answered his call. He knocked three more times, louder this time. Within a few heartbeats the door opened a handful of centimeters. A female face with eyes like fire, her silver hair cut near her chin, peered through the narrow opening.

  “Næ’zätæmém, you were not expected,” Märæsälúm told her visitor. He placed a firm hand on the door and offered her a smile as warm as his frosty visage could manage. As he gazed upon her unblinking, her will faltered and the door swung open. Næ’zätæmém entered and observed.

  Märæsälúm’s home was a simple, functional place. Carved into the side of one of the mountains, the stone interior was polished to a pale golden shine which reflected the warm light from a single burning candle in all directions, fully illuminating the area. A hallway at the far side of the room led to her resting quarters, Næ’zätæmém was vaguely aware, though he had been rejected from seeing the room himself. In the corner stood a waist-high, cube-shaped device for preparing meals. Furniture was limited to three cushioned red armchairs.

  She lives alone, why has she added more? This place has changed since my last visit, Næ’zätæmém thought. Her twin nä’ghältér blades, once near the entrance, now hang high on the wall. In fact, she has secured all of her Úë’mælifíci, and seems to have ceased practicing her craft altogether. Perhaps her skills will not serve me as well as I had hoped. What a shame.

  The dull noise of rapid footsteps down the long hallway caught his attention.

  “To what do I owe the sudden pleasure of your company, my friend?” Märæsälúm asked, covering the sound. Næ’zätæmém did not answer for a moment, continuing to study his surroundings.

  “Velryd is coming,” The cold man finally said idly without looking at the woman. If he had, he would have noted the look of horror on her face, and the way she delicately shifted toward the wall which held her weapons.

  “The Elder Æ’chäbömín? But he sleeps in Däsghäsýl, he has no reason to attack us,” Märæsälúm said. She continued to move away from the man and get close to her defenses.

  “Äl’khäshæ, his sins run deeper than we were aware,” Næ’zätæmém told her.

  “He was unanimously found guilty of torturing and enslaving his fellow Æ’géminë,” Märæsälúm asked. “What greater crime could he commit? What does it have to do with Velryd?”

  Before her questions could be answered, a great noise like thunder blasted through the city beyond, rumbling the ground beneath them. Screams in the distance, from the ghäsýl below, rang out shortly after. Märæsälúm’s skin became numb, though not from the cold.

  “It begins,” Næ’zätæmém breathed. He gazed through the door, still ajar, in ecstasy. Märæsälúm was now backed against the wall, disturbed by the gleam in her visitor’s eye.

  “What have you done?” She asked. The cold man turned to face her now.

  “It is a n
ew age for æ’géminë,” Næ’zätæmém said. The ground around his feet coated with frost. “What we have spoken about, what Úë’sälúm stands in the way of! By the forgotten gods, it comes now.”

  In Næ’zätæmém’s excitement, he raised his hands to animate his speech. His sleeves fell back from his hands and for the first time, Märæsälúm saw a deep gray chain bound to his left wrist, similar to the yellow-orange one on hers. While her chain was solid metal, however, his twisted like smoke.

  “Was there another chain we did not see?” Märæsälúm asked. Næ’zätæmém began to smirk, but it quickly warped into a bitter scowl.

  “Äb,” Næ’zätæmém hissed. “Like Úë’sälúm, I was not made Sílränéx. My new power comes from a much greater source. With it I can change our entire world. Our entire reality. Join me,” He said as he extended his bound hand.

  Tendrils of smoke danced in serpentine motions toward Märæsälúm. She merely stared at the man, unable to say a word. As the smoke approached, the woman felt herself become light-headed. The chill emanating from Næ’zätæmém made its way into her lungs, restricting her air.

  “Äb!” The voice of a young girl called out from the hallway. The footsteps from before returned, louder and quicker this time. A boy about as tall as Næ’zätæmém’s hip and wrapped in a simple white tunic sped into the room, latching onto Märæsälúm. The girl who had spoken followed swiftly in his wake. She wore a dark blue hooded robe with silver lining around the edges and was gasping gently for breath.

  The small boy’s inquisitive rose-gold eyes seemed familiar to Næ’zätæmém as the cold man stared, his face twisted with uncertainty and revulsion.

  “I apologize, Märæsälúm,” Pán’ämírä, the adolescent girl, said. “Úë’lëxä has a strong will, and I could not keep him back. Næ’zätæmém, it is pleasant to see you,” The guest seemed not to notice her. Though Pán’ämírä had known the man as an ally, if not a friend, throughout their previous interactions, his demeanor and the frost growing around his feet triggered in her an instinct to flee.

  “Housing strays, Märæsälúm?” Næ’zätæmém asked.

  “He – Úë’lëxä - is m… My child,” Märæsälúm told him, her voice cracking. “Pán’ämírä has assisted in caring for and understanding him.” She nodded to the younger girl as she spoke. Pán’ämírä inched her way behind Märæsälúm’s back for a sense of safety and grabbed Úë’lëxä’s hand. The boy accepted her grip but refused to leave his mother’s embrace.

  “But the Æ’lúmélýrä is a lengthy and complex ritual, one which you have shown no signs of performing. How did you accomplish this? Ægö qünävím vös hädæö ä sídvë.” Næ’zätæmém demanded, adding his jinx as an afterthought.

  Märæsälúm hugged her child once more and handed him off to Pán’ämírä, despite the boy’s protests. She fought the psychic force of Næ’zätæmém’s spell but could speak naught but truth.

  “I did not,” Märæsälúm replied.

  Næ’zätæmém watched her, not understanding. He looked back to the boy, still gazing with that familiar expression. The visitor’s hands began to shake, and his jaw clenched. Crystals of ice spread across the floor, covering the room in a thin mist.

  “Úë’sälúm,” Næ’zätæmém growled.

  Ice covered much of the room and the door slammed shut. As the young ones fled back in the direction from which they came, Næ’zätæmém raised his left hand at the woman in front of him. Any thoughts of admiration or affection he had harbored for her vanished from his mind.

  As Næ’zätæmém’s rage escalated, so too did the cold, spreading beyond Märæsälúm’s mountain home to overtake their world. Æ’géminë attempting to flee Átrí Nä’lún found their movement slowing until they stopped completely, before the combined assault of Velryd and the Ákhfräl’ürémír obliterated them, leaving only dark impressions in the ground and walls where the victims once stood.

  In the blink of an eye, Märæsälúm swiped her blades from the wall and entered a defensive stance, the weaponry bursting into scarlet flames. The tips of each weapon passed through the ends of the smoky tentacles, still writhing a short distance from her face, sending wisps in all directions. Neither saw a friend in front of them any longer.

  “You shall both burn with your forest,” Næ’zätæmém said. Before either could move, Märæsälúm’s home blurred until the walls faded into nothingness; the dueling pair followed suit within seconds.

  ERR. Memories corrupted.

  ERR. Please find.

  ERR. Stop him.

  Chapter Six: A Hollow Night

  ?2018?

  Isaac remained glued to the story without blinking. The hair on the back of his neck was standing at full attention as he switched to the second page.

  At the top left-hand corner was a roughly two-inch by two-inch diagram of a pair of long-fingered hands. The left had its middle and index fingers extended together, pressing the tips into the palm of the right as if writing on it.

  Underneath was a phrase that wouldn’t translate; Næ’chäb äl’mæ dä ægö säväním. The remainder of the page seemed to shift and warp so Isaac couldn’t make out what it said. He whispered the phrase to himself clumsily.

  Isaac frantically pushed apart every book on the surrounding shelves, hoping to find something else like these pages, but came back with nothing. He sunk to the floor, clutching the story to his chest, and hung his head back against the shelf.

  “What happened next, damn it?” Isaac asked no one.

  When he heard a shuffle around the corner, Isaac quietly pushed himself to his feet. He should have been the only living thing in the building. Suddenly, Isaac wished he hadn’t talked to himself out loud.

  Isaac fought his trembling hands and shaky breath and peered through the shelves to find the source of the noise. He scanned as much of the room as he could from his spot for several seconds. There was no person or thing in the place that he could see. With his noun-check complete, Isaac turned toward the writing desk, intending to get home before anything else could startle him.

  Just as Isaac was going to move away, a filthy-looking man of about fifty or so stumbled from behind a neighboring shelf. His stringy, salt-and-pepper hair was hanging from his slightly lopsided head onto the shoulder of an oversized, battered Carhartt jacket. The man walked with a severe limp, with his left leg dragging lamely behind his right. His face was waxy, and what skin was visible was covered in scars.

  Great, a junkie, Rage said bitterly.

  Great, a judgmental ass. You don’t know what’s up with that guy, Panic shot back.

  Isaac grabbed the first book he saw, hid the pages inside, and stepped out to let the man know the library had closed, and he needed to leave.

  Isaac hated this part of his job. Homeless people came in from time to time to get warm or job search online. It had never been easy for him to approach someone face-to-face, and he never looked forward to telling someone in a tough situation to get back out in the cold. He consoled himself with the facts that A) It was nearly midnight, hours after closing, and B) This bum had scared the shit out of him.

  After a struggle with the lead weights which had suddenly replaced his feet, Isaac dragged himself out of his safe spot to confront the stranger. He gathered a lungful of air, straightened his back, and generally sought to make himself look and feel more powerful than he really was.

  Isaac looked straight down the width of three bookshelves and tried to sound as firm and official as possible.

  “Hey… uh… buh,” Was about as far as he got.

  The man took a few slow, painful-looking steps, not even pausing when Isaac appeared. In response, he emitted a rasping, scratchy wheeze like his lungs were lined with sandpaper.

  Hopefully old Wax-face was looking for a dictionary, Rage quipped.

  You’re one to talk, Uh-Buh, Panic shot back. Neither one of Isaac’s thoughts made him feel any better.

  Against his w
ill, Isaac began to giggle audibly, and even more against his will, tears found their way down his face.

  The intruder, now about six long paces from Isaac and lumbering nearer, was less than pleased at the new sound. The old man stopped dead in his tracks for a moment, and every part of Isaac froze.

  Wax-face seemed to notice Isaac for the first time, widening his eyes - which Isaac saw were gray with cataracts, streaked with red - and leering at the librarian with a predatory fascination. His jaw slowly fell open, a stream of blood flowing down his chin to the floor.

  Isaac attempted to flee, but his feet were giving his brain the silent treatment. The best he got out of himself was turning his head to look over his shoulder. Two more lumbering, waxy, blood-dripping freaks limped out from behind bookshelves and toward Isaac.

  Our hero would claim for most of his life beyond this event that the sound he emitted was a leonine roar as he suddenly found the courage to fight his attackers off and escape.

  However, he knew completely well that the noise which escaped his lungs was a high-pitched, birdlike screech as he attempted to mediate a debate between Panic and Rage over the course of a second or two;

  Oh fuck, zombies.

  Don’t be ridiculous.

  Find a weapon!

  You don’t even know how to use any.

  Find one anyway!

  It’s a library, are we going to papercut them back to death?

  Do we think this is the zombie apocalypse?

  I feel like we’re wasting a lot of time here.

  Panic ceased its babbling and made a noise not unlike a police siren. Rage decided now was as good a time as any to a hop on a dream-bus and see the world before the useless skin-sack they inhabited got himself killed, offering Isaac no more survival pointers.