by Zach Adams
A light bulb lit up above Isaac’s head. That is not a metaphor; a light on the wall directly behind him lit up beyond its normal capacity and burst in a small shower of sparks. He hoped it was just a side-effect of magical energy. He brought his hands back together and called out, stacking all of his willpower behind it; “Næ’chäb äl’mæ dä ægö säväním!”
The atoms of the room did not sing the phrase for him, as they had when L’æon came to his rescue. The beast didn’t even stop moving but turned its creepy head toward Isaac rather than taking another casualty.
A small shockwave erupted between Isaac and the beast, from which a thick hardcover book materialized and whacked the animal, spine-first, between its blind spots. The creature seemed confused for a moment as the book fell to the floor, then turned away from the crowd and let out another chilling shriek, threatening to punish Isaac for his interruption. It leapt with supernatural speed to the staircase for him.
Isaac, now officially out of ideas, dove over the railing to the tiles below.
Contusions detected! The brain gang shouted.
Yeah, I detected some of them myself, Isaac thought as he groaned. He struggled to clear his head so he could get back on his feet, and a handful of those still standing did so between the beast and him. Isaac had never felt such a love for his own species before.
It was all futile. The monster tore into them ferociously to reach Isaac. Blood sprayed up, down, sideways and in circles, and the last two left standing decided it was more crucial to protect the children than a grown stranger. The beast crept toward Isaac, who remained horizontally petrified.
It sniffed, and it growled. It growled, and it sniffed. Its oversized maw opened, revealing three interlocked rows of razor-sharp, bloodstained teeth. It prepared eagerly to introduce each one of them to Isaac’s insides, whether he had something else to say about it or not.
And then the walls of the museum sang. Isaac thought he could smell apple pie from the other end of the building.
“Täw!” The walls called out, shaking the foundations below them. The demon-cat-lizard froze instantly. Its hungry mouth hung open. The curling antennae and tail stopped dead in a serpentine shape. Every sound in the place ceased.
A new challenger, familiar to only one of the people in the room, stood at the end of the hallway to the front lobby, still in his white suit and feathered cape. His left hand was high in the air, every abnormally long digit extended as far as it would go. His face had lost its dim glow and bore no emotion. His eyes, however, those shining gold eyes, bore a fury the likes of which Isaac had never seen.
L’æon marched with grim determination to the frozen beast, staring into the pits where its eyes should have been. His stare had the gravity of a black hole, and Isaac had to look away to avoid being sucked in himself.
L’æon pressed his palm to the beast’s forehead and said to it, “Næ’vös, dä Dätánímä.”
The room did not sing in an infinite chorus. The air did not shake. A chill ran through L’æon’s body, down his arm, and into the creature. Waves of bitter cold radiated from him and gave Isaac goosebumps. The beast was gone.
Isaac blinked, and found himself in his car. Now that he had time to test it, he found he was unable to move his injured shoulder. The street between them and the museum was roped off on either end, with the designated area packed with police cars, each with two armed officers using their front doors as shields. Every cop had a handgun trained on the front door of the museum. Isaac could hear at least one helicopter nearby, and there were news vans from every local channel standing at the boundaries.
L’æon stared up at the sky, lost in his own mind. Though it didn’t seem as though he had much to spare, his face had drained of color. It now had a light ash-gray tinge.
Isaac attempted to get his attention, with no effect. He repeated his savior’s name a few times but wasn’t heard. As he nervously extended a hand to tap his shoulder, the elf spoke.
“There were one hundred and four people in that historical gallery, including staff. One hundred and four beating hearts. Now there are an even fifty, the rest eaten by that moura -’’ He paused as Isaac looked confused. “Sorry, Æ’chäbömín moura are a subgenus, or something of the sort, of Abominants, a savage species of mutants from my world. I detected a hint of whatever magic brought it here but was too slow to stop it. That damned vinegar smell again.”
L’æon didn’t look away from the field of gray above them. He didn’t even seem to notice the crowd outside, who miraculously had not spotted them or the car yet. Isaac quietly pointed them all out to him.
“We must leave,” L’æon told Isaac. “You will be in great danger,” He rested his chin on the tips of his long, spider-leg fingers while he thought.
“Why am I in danger? Why does this keep happening?” Isaac demanded.
L’æon indicated the crowd outside. “Witnesses,” He said simply. Isaac looked outside, and back at L’æon. Weeping, traumatized survivors were being escorted out of the museum.
“I tried to protect the people in there. They stood in front of the beast when it came for me.” Isaac said shakily, piecing the collage of terrified memories together. Adrenaline had taken a battering ram to his cerebellum, and the brain gang decided to nap it off, leaving him to cope on his own.
“Given your species’ current position on their evolutionary timeline, there is no telling what the official story may morph into,” L’æon explained. “But the public always needs a scapegoat. You acted, and then disappeared.” The elf sounded bitter as he said ‘scapegoat’. Finally, he looked Isaac in the face.
Isaac had the look of a person who just saw their planet get repossessed while they stayed put. Any moment, that horde of loaded firearms could notice that their prime suspect was directly behind them.
“Wouldn’t they suspect you too?” Isaac asked.
L’æon shrugged. “It is possible, but with the amount of cosmic and psychic energy flying around, they may not be able to retain the memory of something like me.”
Isaac smacked the steering wheel pathetically. Until he did so, he had momentarily forgotten about his injured shoulder. It reminded him, and he winced.
“Why does this keep happening to me?” Isaac asked, his voice cracking. L’æon replied.
“These are not words that escape my lips often, but I do not know. There are… disturbances, anomalies, in the skin of creation. Something horrific must have been done, some violation of natural order that is causing the foundations of reality to crack. Right across your world, and trillions of those beyond, dimensional structures are collapsing. I followed the scent, which has led me twice to you. You are locked at the epicenter, and I do not yet know why.”
L’æon slowly, awkwardly placed an arm over Isaac’s shoulders in the kind of hug that made it clear that the hugger was unaccustomed to such things. To his credit, he took care not to agitate his human friend’s pained appendage. Isaac stared through the windshield, trying feebly to process what he was hearing, distracted by the burning sensation he felt at being touched while his mind was in overdrive.
Some of the language stuck with him. Isaac had seen Star Trek and Doctor Who, so “anomalies in the skin of creation” wasn’t too far from his comfort zone. At least, not in theory. Reality was no place for that kind of silliness. It couldn’t seriously be happening. And who did he say was at the epicenter of it all? Isaac Victor Falcone, the broke fanboy with writer’s block and an anxiety disorder. It didn’t compute.
“Isaac,” L’æon began, in an attempt at a reassuring tone. “I am going to find out what is causing this. That will be much easier, and you will be much safer, if you join me.”
The elf stuck out his left hand, expecting to have it shaken. Isaac grabbed it, envisioning it as a raft to pull him back into the real world. He babbled and stuttered when his voice finally found him.
“But… I can’t… My shoulder… Universe… Driving… I can’t.”
L’æon peered at him for a few seconds, then leaned over to see his dangling arm. The skin, visible through tears in his clothing, was already turning a nasty shade of purple. He extended his left hand again, this time with the palm facing Isaac.
“Shínímä.” L’æon said as each of his fingertips twitched. The sound surrounded him and shook the car. Every nerve in Isaac’s body lit up. A wave of warmth like taking a huge drink of whiskey washed over, under, around and through him. All of his bodily aches and pains evaporated. L’æon leaned back in his seat, his eyes closed, and took several deep breaths.
“What… How…” Isaac babbled before trailing off into an incomprehensible stream of syllables. He patted himself from head to shin, searching for a bruise, cut, or any other sort of injury. His search results came up empty.
“Simple healing enchantment, though it is sálvë häzün your injury was a simple one. Yours only left me slightly short of breath.” L’æon explained. For the first time since arriving at the museum, the odd elf smiled.
Isaac took a minute to process the week he had survived so far. He thought about his family and friends, about the unflavored bowl of oatmeal that was his life. About the people in the museum, about the children who just barely made it out. Hell, he felt like he was a child who just barely made it out.
“I’ll try to help you,” Isaac finally said. L’æon looked at him with a mixture of joy and pain.
“I’m probably going to die,” The young man continued, losing some confidence as he did. “But next time it could be my sister getting torn apart if I stay home, or my best friend. I want to find these things before they have another chance to find me.” He stared at L’æon, unsure if he hoped the magical being would talk him out of it.
L’æon smiled ear to ear with pride, masking a glimmer of anxiety. “You sound like someone I knew, in another life,” He said slowly. The pair crept out of the parking lot in the opposite direction of the police without being spotted.
This guy seems to have a knack for arriving right when we’re about to die, Panic said in the back of Isaac’s mind. Seems convenient that you get to be the scapegoat while no one else will recall him.
Chapter Twelve: The Vanishing Book
2016
The sun rose right when it was meant to. Its light shone through the faded Avengers blanket into the swamp that was Isaac’s bedroom; his eyes opened at 7:59 AM on the dot. He verified the time on his phone before lifting himself out of bed.
Chloe, having risen half an hour earlier, was cross-legged on the sofa in overalls which had been blue before getting blackened in over a hundred spots by components of their owner’s work. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun and her glasses sat high on her nose as she guided a doll-sized screwdriver around the inside of her computer tower. On their TV, an episode of Doctor Who was just beginning, though Chloe paid little attention.
“Morning, Chlo” Isaac grumbled sleepily. “I see you’re enjoying your Christmas gifts.” Chloe was a generally easy person to buy gifts for - it made holidays less of a headache. If it had to do with computers or astronomy, she was thrilled.
The previous morning, they had convened in their living room, on a video call with Tobias and Uncle Vic in Seattle while opening gifts they had mailed each other. Chloe ecstatically tore open three packages of computer parts and tools, along with a single tee shirt bearing the likeness of Iron Man, which was now worn under her overalls.
Isaac’s greeting startled the girl, causing her to drop her screwdriver into the bowels of the machine. She glared at her brother for a moment and then dug the tool back out.
“Morning, Ivy,” Chloe replied with a sigh. As Isaac took a seat at the opposite end of the couch, she pushed her project a few inches away from him. “Do you work today?”
Isaac nodded miserably. It was just his luck that he’d get stuck in the library the day after Christmas, being one of two employees who had been hired at the beginning of the month. At least that meant Donny, who was hired with him, would be there for company. Chloe returned to work while Isaac watched the program on the screen. The pair went about the rest of their ordinary morning as they always had before.
Isaac pulled his aging but faithful car into the parking lot of the library. He recognized two of the cars in the lot; A green Impala, given to Donny by Dr. Grigoryan in high school, and Beige’s Porsche.
As he marched in to get the day over with, he glanced at the watch on his right wrist. Scooby Doo let him know it was now 9:58 AM, leaving him two minutes to get through the door.
Once inside, Isaac found Beige chastising Donny in a hushed yell that is the trademark of librarians. His friend was trying desperately not to laugh in his sort-of-boss’s face.
“…Completely unprofessional behavior, you really need to grow up, I’m reporting this to Olivia when she gets here -”
As he ranted, Donny winked at Isaac from across the room. The latter took his seat at the counter and tried to listen in.
“I could have been seriously injured, and then you would have been fired -”
Tears were beginning to form in Donny’s eyes as he tightened his jaw. If he broke now, Beige would never stop. He barely survived long enough for his superior to pull out a notepad and write a citation, stuffing it aggressively into Donny’s jacket pocket. The offending employee fled to the checkout desk, waiting a few seconds for Ben to vanish.
When the boss finally walked away, Donny burst out in hysterical laughter. He was doubled over the counter, sending Isaac’s perfectly organized desk supplies in every direction as he flailed about.
“What on earth did you do now?” Isaac asked, both annoyed and amused as he rescued his belongings. It took a moment for his friend to collect himself and regain the power of speech.
“It’s more a matter of what didn’t I do,” Donny eventually replied. “First I reprinted his badge to say, ‘Beige Schafer’. He hasn’t even noticed that one yet. Gave every smooth surface in his office the Vaseline treatment. And I loosened the screws in his chair so it would sink to the floor as soon as he sat down,” Genghis Don began to tear up with laughter again.
“That’s not even the best bit!” Donny exclaimed. “I moved his desk to storage and replaced it with a balsa wood replica. Also given a healthy coat of Vaseline, of course. He took it down with him when his chair collapsed.” Isaac’s jaw dropped, both in awe of his Donny’s skills and exhaustion at his boundless energy. He half-suspected at least some of the story was exaggerated, but Donny’s chaotic nature bordered on the supernatural at times.
The latter left to wander the building, pretending to do some sort of work. Isaac was left alone with only #9 to keep him occupied.
Beige Schafer warned everyone to leave the building at 5:50 PM. At 6, it was empty except for Isaac, who strategically parked his car behind the building out of view and raced back to his favorite table. He dropped his backpack on the surface and scanned through the fantasy section for inspiration.
“Brown… Burgess… Butcher…” Isaac mumbled absently as he peered across the spines of books he’d read a dozen times at least. Nothing stood out.
When he finally reached the D shelf, he found a hardcover copy of “The War of the Worlds” in the incorrect place. He brought the novel back to his table and forced his eyes to remain glued to the first page. He managed to trudge through the first few before dropping the book out of exhaustion. His already-limited attention span had diminished since he left high school. Reading, once a favorite pastime, had become progressively more challenging.
As he put the book on the table, the back cover flapped gently. The motion seemed to shake a page loose. Isaac opened it back up, and the page drifted to the table. It was discolored, ancient-looking, and slightly wider than the rest around it.
The stiff, wrinkled paper was covered in a foreign script Isaac had never heard of. He couldn’t even guess what it said, but the layout suggested a list of some kind. As he tried to puzzle it out, the pronunciations (the clos
est he could come up with, that is) floated around in his head with a sort of haunting, melodic ring.
Isaac reached the bottom of the page, where a single phrase was printed underneath a diagram of a pair of hands, one pretending to write on the other with two fingertips.
“Næ’chäb äl’mæ dä ægö säväním,” Isaac said gracelessly as he mimicked the diagram. For a second, and then a few more, nothing happened. He shook his head, unsure what he had expected.
“Stupid,” He said to himself. “Must be from some obscure fantasy book.” He placed the page down and took a second stab at reading the intact novel in front of him.
It wasn’t happening. Every minute or so, he would glance back at the swirling script, feeling as though something in it was calling his name.
Isaac placed the book back on the table, placing the loose page under the back cover in case its owner came back for it. He raised his hands once again in a spherical shape.
“Næ’chäb äl’mæ dä ægö säväním,” Isaac said softly, his gaze locked on the book’s front. The images on the cover began to slowly take on a third dimension, like a hologram rising from the artwork.
Isaac poked the shape gently to see if it was real, and his finger went straight through it. As he withdrew, the shape became more solid, and he couldn’t pass through it again. After a few heartbeat’s worth of total silence, the table shook, and the book was gone, along with the projection from the cover. A wisp of dust drifted away, toward the shelves where the volume once rested. In the back of Isaac’s mind, he thought he could hear whispers that sounded nothing like Panic or Rage.
Reality can bend to your will…
Remember me…
Chapter Thirteen: Äl’khäshæ, Part One
?2018?
Isaac woke up in his pitch-dark bedroom, his head splitting and sweat approaching his eyes. Gamora was fast asleep, sprawled across his feet. A sliver of moonlight lent a dim glow to the Avengers.
