by Bob Williams
I pull open the solid oak entry door and I’m overwhelmed with the stench of cigarettes, shit, and puke. I also catch the faint metallic smell of blood. The six people lingering on the stools look to be dead at first glance. There is an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. I wouldn’t have thought humans could be like this if I didn’t see it; if these are Freaks, I’m totally fucked. I stand at the entrance, trying to sell that I’m looking for someone. I obviously don’t belong.
The jukebox is droning the chorus to “Paint It Black” as I step uneasily across the room towards the bar. Drab local décor consisting of pennants for the Bears, Cubs, White Sox, and Blackhawks hang meaninglessly on the walls. It’s a cold reminder of how things like professional sports used to be important and how trivial they are now. Dim lighting and a few other outdated signs and banners complete the look. Off to the right side of the bar, there’s a large metal sliding door that must lead to a back room, but I see no other entrances or exits.
I’m dressed in jeans, a button-down shirt with a tie, and a knee-length overcoat. The six patrons inside have undoubtedly never seen a tie. The bartender notices me immediately and his body language tenses. A couple of years ago his tension would’ve meant he thought I was a cop.
“You don’t belong here, mister. Turn around and fuck off.”
“I don’t want any trouble. My name is Prescott.”
I hand him my card. Despite a massive societal collapse, a simple thing like a business card still has merit. Addresses? Not so important. Contact information like a cell phone, though, is worth its weight in gold.
“I give a fuck, why?” He shrugs and throws my card in the trash without looking at it.
Asshole.
He wears a stained mechanic’s shirt and his jeans look like they were last washed in 1986. Upon his shirt is a formerly white oval with the name “Rick” stitched in cursive. I’ve never met Rick, but over the years I’ve met many like him.
“I need some information, Rick. I’m looking for someone. A woman, blonde hair, thirty-five years old,” I said, starting off friendly. The way he looks at me is setting off warnings. He’s doing this hand clenching thing that’s making me nervous.
I have to tread carefully. If Rick is a Freak, then the rest of them are, too. I’m a good shot, but with this many targets, no one’s that good. I feel a bead of sweat slide down my neck and slowly make its way down my back.
“I don’t make it my business to know shit about anyone’s business,” snarls Rick.
I reach into my inside coat pocket and peel off two twenties and put them on the bar. Rick looks at them, then back up at me.
“Money? That’s rich, man! Get the fuck outta here!”
I’ve got to keep my anger in check. I shake my head a few times, crush my eyes closed, and take a breath. Looking again at the miserable son of a bitch in front of me, I proceed.
“The woman I’m looking for, where is she?” I say in a voice I barely recognize.
His asshole vibe vanishes and his posture becomes perfect. I blink a few times and focus on Rick as he practically stares through me. All six of the barflies shift as if awakening and look at me.
“Now, Mr. Prescott,” says Rick mockingly, “what makes you think I would tell you? I can’t rightly say he wants you to know.”
“What? Who is he?”
“Like I would te—”
I grab his shirt, jerk him over the counter, and push him hard to the floor. His head connects with a sharp crack and his eyes roll back for a second before returning. My first inclination is to beat a fucking hole in this guy’s face, but that won’t help me find her. I need information. I can feel it; I’m close.
“Where. Is. She?” I say in a guttural whisper, the spittle falling from my mouth onto the man’s steely face.
Before he can answer, I feel a number of fists and boots connecting with multiple parts of my body. I take the beating; it goes with the territory.
This was not supposed to go down like this.
INTRODUCTION
My name is Prescott. With two T’s. Don’t fuck that up. I don’t do many things well. In fact, I do most things poorly. There is one thing I do exceptionally well, though. I find things. Whatever it is you lost, for whatever reason, I will find it.
That used to work well for me, before the Descent. Now, mostly what I do is connect people who’ve been separated by the Collapse. Before, yeah, I made good money, but none of that matters now. While there are still factions of society left in the safe zones, I can’t turn my back on those who need me. Like I said, I’ve been doing this a long time. What else would I do?
I used to get asked all the time, “How did you end up in the finding business?” It’s an odd question to answer. It started when I was twelve, when I lost my pocketknife. It was one of the first possessions I could truly call mine. It was included in a box of things that belonged to my parents before they died. I was angry, as angry as any kid would be after losing such a sentimental possession. It was like I had lost a piece of myself.
I spent two weeks looking for it. I questioned the Prescotts, all of them. My sister, Emily, claimed I was an idiot and could find my own knife. My adoptive mother did her best to placate me, but her valuable time could not be used looking for my “Toy,” as she called it.
My adoptive father was a different story. He sat me down in his study and we talked about it. Trust me, I get it. In all of those stories you read growing up, it always seems like the protagonist has some well-to-do father who dispenses wisdom from his study. Well, this was no different. He did. The first thing he told me was he wasn’t going to help me look for it. He would, however, assist me in finding it.
“Possessions rule the world,” he explained. “It’s elementary. What you possess is truly the sum of your person. The possessions on which you place the greatest value dictate to the rest of us what matters most to you. Right now, at a very young and naive age, you have chosen to place great value on an insignificant pocket knife.”
“It’s not just a pocket knife. If I can use your word, Mr. Prescott, that knife is my first possession,” I said with passion.
“Very well, then. Let me provide you with some tools to find it,” Mr. Prescott offered.
We talked about points. My father told me that in between the time a possession is lost until the time it is found, there are points. He explained that time makes no difference. “If something is lost for a day or a hundred years,” he coached, “Link the points together from beginning to end and there will be a connection. There, at the connection, you will have found what you are looking for.”
“How do you know you’re beginning at the right point?”
He laughed heartily. “Any point where you begin that leads to a connection is the right one.”
He rose from his brown leather chair, put his right arm lightly on my back, and with his left he gestured towards the door as he questioned me, “For something that you seemed to cherish, how did you manage to take so little care of it that you lost it?”
I’ve never forgotten that. One sentence can be a man’s legacy. Twenty-two words that over twenty years later would still cut deep into my heart, stealing a part of my spirit and soul like a thief in the night.
The pursuit of my pocketknife moved me to neighbors, friends, classmates, and teachers, rather quickly connecting point after point. I never stopped looking.
The information I gathered led me to Billy Summers. He had stolen the knife from my backpack when I set it down to go through the lunch line. I spoke with the shy kid nobody else talked to, and he suspected Billy of several cafeteria thefts. He suggested I speak to R.D., the janitor, because “he sees everything.” I followed up with R.D., and he had indeed seen Summers take my knife.
I spied Billy Summers with it at recess that same day. What a satisfying feeling. I had found the knife. But I needed to get it back. This was how it happened:
Me: Hey, jerk face! Give me back my knife.
Billy: Screw off!
REVELATIONS
Slowly, the room appears out of the darkness. My entire body is a resounding beacon of pain. My head… Fuck… it’s pounding. I hear talking, but the words are more like echoes. The first thing I notice is that my hands are tied uncomfortably behind my back to a cool metal chair. Both of my hands have gone numb while I was out, and I struggle to regain any feeling.
I look around to figure out what else is going on. The group that put the beatdown on me is gathered around a table playing poker and taking no notice of me. I’m brimming with rage. How could I let this happen?
I have to think. What am I missing? What are the points?
I close my eyes, lower my head, and play it all back. Practically empty parking lot, the fire, nobody at the door, and not a single person noticed when I walked in. Each point by itself doesn’t say much, but together…
They knew. They were waiting for me. How could I be so careless?
“Hey! Pardon the interruption,” I growl. “I’m sure it’s a real meeting of the minds over there, but can I get a drink of water?”
Rick turns and shows me a glare, revealing his eyes are completely red. He takes a rag from his pocket and wipes a bloody tear as it escapes his eye.
Oh shit, I’m so fucked.
Wait a second. This guy is a Freak and he broke. How can he be acting so… calm?
There are five Freaks sitting at that table, playing poker. All the players are covered in blood. I’ve never seen anything like it before. All of my knowledge and experience since the Descent says that once a Freak breaks, they are mindless psychopaths. I have to laugh at the complete disaster this has turned into. At how little I apparently knew going in.
In spite of the immediate danger, there are a couple of important questions that creep into my head. Is there an evolutionary aspect to BH-2014? Somebody surely would have seen this before and we would know, right? Or is there someone with the talent and ability to train these creatures?
Rick stands and makes his way towards the bar. He fills a glass with water and saunters over towards me, a smug look on his face. He walks up and throws the water in my face while letting out a cackle.
“You’re really in the shit now, Mr. Prescott!” he declares, putting an emphasis on the T’s with complete disdain.
“What makes you say that? I’ve been in worse spots than this,” I say, not believing a word of it myself.
“Because I say so, motherfucker!” he spits. “He told me you’d come. He wasn’t quite sure when, but he knew you would. What did he say? Sounded so stupid…oh, yeah. He said you would follow the points.”
His words are a gunshot to the gut. “What did you say?”
“You heard me, asshole,” he says. He steps forward and belts me across the jaw with a right hook. My head snaps back and I taste fresh blood inside my mouth.
“That all you got, friend?” I toss out to his back as he walks away. “If you’re trying to tell me something, maybe you should speak up.”
“Is that right?” he croaks and turns to me again.
I still find his swagger misplaced, until he rocks me with a vicious head-butt to the forehead just over my right eye. It’s a massive jolt, and it hurts, but it sends him back several steps as well.
“GLORY TO THE EIGHTY-EIGHT!” he screams. “AND SERENITY TO THE BLACK HAND, WHICH LIVES TO SERVE!”
“The Eighty-Eight? Did you say Black Hand?” I demand. “What the fuck is going on?”
His face is a mask of total hatred. I have plenty of hate. But hatred is a fierce concept. With hatred you don’t just hate somebody. No, you have to strip away all the layers of humanity to get to the base of hatred. You have to know that person. There needs to be a reason.
Blood is flowing into my eye and down my face as Rick cuts the rope securing me to the chair, and I pitch forward to the ground. I’m fading out. Lying in a fetal position in blood-soaked pain, I make a decision that will either save my life or end it.
I gingerly shift from my side to a praying position. The right side of my face is bloodied and my sight is clouded from swelling while I suffer excruciating pain. I force my left leg out, reach my right hand back for the chair, and pull myself up.
I hope the chair will stabilize me, instead it falls over from my weight and sends me flailing towards a large metal garage door that makes a resounding crash when I topple into it. Rick turns quickly to see what the commotion is and notices I’ve made it to my feet. This appears to piss him off.
He turns to his half-breed pals, who are now glaring at me from the poker table, and begins to stoke the fire. These Freaks are frothing for a kill. I don’t know what or who “Trained” the fuckers, but they’re primed for destruction.
“This asshole still needs a little more religion,” says Rick. “Any preachers in the room?”
A Freak stands slowly, and his chair slides backwards and falls over. He’s about 6’5”, at least 300 pounds. He crushes his knuckles together in a chorus of pops and makes his way towards me. I don’t want to think about the damage this monster could do to me. Fighting a Freak one on one is doable, but not good. This man is equal to three. His biceps are bulging, flexing in preparation for the “religion” he intends to baptize me with.
Hands regaining sensation, I push off the cool metallic door and take a stance. This menacing motherfucker needs to understand I intend to fight. I shrug off my overcoat and wrestle the bloodstained tie from around my neck. I may be about to take a beating but believe me, he’s going to hurt, too. I came here for Emily and I’m not leaving without her. Not alive, anyhow.
“AND THE EIGHTY-EIGHT SHALL VISIT UPON THE EARTH!” Rick begins to preach at the top of his lungs. “AND THE WORTHY WILL BE TRANSFORMED INTO THE BLACK HAND, WHO ARE THEIR SERVANTS AND SOLDIERS!”
He’s damn near gone crazy with delight. I don’t have words for what I’m seeing. I wish Pollock was here and had my back.
The remaining members of the posse float over to the space we inhabit and form a circle. They have all transformed into bloodthirsty jackals that mean to see death. I feel like I’m standing in the last moments of my life.
“Let’s get it on,” I say as I throw the hardest punch I can manage towards the giant. He catches the punch in his fist, engulfing my hand, and twists upward until it feels like my arm will break at the elbow. At the same time he violently launches a knee square into my gut, expelling all the air from my body.
The blow knocks me to the ground, and I give myself over to the agony as the giant kneels down and clubs me in the back. Just then, Rick is back in the mix, kicking and punching me in a berserk attack from the side. I’m able to protect my face and body well enough to roll onto my back and thrust a two-legged kick towards his chest. It does no damage but separates us enough that I can get to my feet and stagger backwards.
I stare at Rick, continuing my attempt to discover an ounce of understanding for the hatred he holds. Finally I ask, arms extended in an exasperated display, “What gives, man? Who the fuck am I to you? I don’t get it.”
“You never have, Prescott.”
“What does that mean?” I manage to say.
“They didn’t want you. You weren’t receptive. They loathed you!” He barks out.
“Who didn’t want…” I lock eyes with him. My mouth is agape, blood trickling from my lip.
“WE HAVE A WINNER!”
“You’re… you’re talking about the Prescotts.” Emotion grips my throat as I stutter the name.
“Yes, I’m talking about the Prescotts. That name means honor and glory to The Eighty-Eight!”
I rush him in a blind rage and take him to the ground. In a primal state, I beat Rick into submission.
“You don’t know anything about the Prescotts!” I scream. I don’t know where this is going.
Lost in the background while I am committing my violent attack on Rick, the large metal door slides open with an egregiou
s wail.
“That will be all, son,” the voice booms.
Two men had entered the room. They are both impeccably dressed and wear a look of thorough disgust on their faces.
One is younger and clearly a subordinate, albeit a respected one. The other is approaching sixty and most assuredly carries with him great power and influence. I recognize them both immediately.
The Freaks cower from the older man. His presence has sent them scurrying to the darkened corners like rats, and terrified whispers gain volume over the hostilities taking place in the center of the room. Even the big guy who almost killed me is cowed.
That voice. I haven’t heard it in two decades, but I know it as well as I know my own. It’s the voice of the man who plucked me from obscurity at the age of twelve and turned me into the man I am today. It is the voice of my father.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Prescott,” says Rick.
“What are you two doing here?” I can’t hide the shock and confusion on my face.
If there are two people I never would’ve thought I’d see standing side by side, it’s Pollock and Mr. Prescott.
“What the hell is going on? Who is he?” I ask, gesturing towards Rick.
He shakes his head in disappointment. “Language, young man. You were always a bit of a savage. We…I did what I could for you, but you never really were a good fit.”
“A good fit? I loved you!”
“Yes, well, I can’t say we felt the same Mr.… uh?”
“Prescott! My name is Prescott!” At this, Pollock laughs.
“If you insist. I suppose it’s high time you heard this. You were selected from a rather small group of candidates from the Forrester Home for Boys. We are always scouting for young men to join our ranks as apprentices. That is how we came to find Pollock. Pollock, as you call him, was already in my care and in place at the Forrest before your arrival. He surveyed the lot, determined you were the pick of the litter, and informed me. Everything he told you then about himself and in regards to your search has been a carefully crafted lie. Bringing you into our home was to be a glorious day for The Black Hand. Alas, it was a catastrophic failure.”
