The Last Everything

by Frank Kennedy

  Tom uncrossed his legs and sat up. “Excuse me, Benjamin. I’m quite sure I don’t care for the direction this is going. This conversation is …”

  “Dad, please. I know you don’t like the man I’ve become. But I did as you demanded. I gave everything I could to Jamie. So you owe me this chance to explain. About six months ago, I attended a church service. I know you warned me for years to stay away, but my curiosity was too strong. The preacher’s sermon went on forever, but two words connected. Ever since, I’ve been putting together the pieces of the puzzle. Studying everything I’ve been taught about Caryllan energy. All my research is in this folder. It will change everything the Chancellors believe.”

  “And those two words were?” Tom asked.

  The answer stumbled across his lips. “Eternal life.”

  Ben knew he failed. The cold, sweeping emptiness of an immovable Chancellor appeared in his father’s eyes. He rushed headlong into an explanation, detailing his revelation, insisting his folder contained ample proof of how to counteract the Jewel’s effect, that Jamie could be saved and guaranteed long life. In the process, usher in new promise for Chancellors.

  “Your interest in Jamie is admirable at a sentimental level,” Marlena said, “but also wholly irrelevant. You ended your contractual responsibilities toward him when you moved out. Frankly, I fail to see why you maintain a vested interest at all.”

  They escorted him to the front door. His father leaned into Ben with a hot breath and said, “If you ever try to see Jamie, I’ll kill you where you stand.” Ben saw a clear, silent message through those impenetrable eyes: Ben signed his own death warrant.

  He hopped into his pickup and drove around for an hour. And then, after no alternative arose, he called Ignatius.

  “I’m out of time,” he said. “I need you to fix this.”

  He spurned the echoes of rifle blasts.

  Walt spoke with great confidence. “You see, Sheridan, you and I are both men of secrets. We do what is required to survive while also preserving the natural order, and as a consequence we must bear the burden of our actions in silence. I made accommodations whenever our mission was in danger. Some I made without consulting the others. I make no apologies. You, however …”

  “Killed them. Yes. And I’ll always have their blood on my hands. But Dad would have made me disappear. Nobody would have ever found my body, and Jamie wouldn’t have been given another chance at life.”

  “And how has that plan worked out for you, Sheridan?”

  Ben seethed. “When I was a kid, I was always scared of you, but I was told you were someone I could trust.” Walt didn’t blink as Ben continued. “I don’t think trust is even part of your equation. You’re battle-hardened, determined to fulfill a mission, and God help the little people who get in your way. Those observers who came with you weren’t just colleagues. There were three children. Another one growing inside your wife. You ruined all their lives. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  “You were only eight years old when we left. You lacked the maturity to understand the central tenet of the Chancellor code. The familial bond is an asset, but it cannot be allowed to become an emotional distraction. Preservation of the Chancellory and its core philosophy is the sole priority of each member of our caste. Grace understood this. Samantha was taught it years ago and has obeyed. Victory is morality!”

  Ben summoned his courage. “I can barely remember what home looks like. So here’s your victory, Walt.” He grabbed his gun and swung the weapon across his body to within an inch of Walt’s right temple. “Pull over.”

  The huge Chancellor’s right eye rolled slightly to its side. Ben saw a deep, soulless well of arrogance, a resolute belief that death was a fate reserved only for indigos and Chancellors who lacked a spine. Ben told himself to pull the trigger.

  “Pull over, or I’m going to make Sammie an orphan,” he said.

  “You’re a dead man,” Walt said in a full voice.

  “You got that right.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw flashing blue lights approaching from the opposite direction. Walt hit the gas, throwing Ben backward. An arm came free of the wheel and flew into Ben’s face. Ben pressed the trigger and heard a deafening pop followed by shattering glass.

  The SUV surged into the other lane, and Ben stared into the headlights of a Vernon County Sheriff’s Department patrol car.

  30

  T HE SUV CLIPPED the front right corner of the patrol car, bounded along the highway’s gently sloping curb, swerved, and took out a green road sign at a rural intersection. As Ben regrouped, Walt grabbed the wheel and made a sharp left before correcting the car’s course along an unfamiliar side road, which sloped sharply downward.

  Ben fired twice from point-blank range, only to have Walt slam an arm against the pistol or duck his head a split second before the bullet could do him in. Ben tried to snatch control of the wheel and lost his gun, which fell to the floor. They fought with determined grunts, but they weren’t prepared for the road’s sudden right-angle bend. The car continued straight, took flight and landed with an uncivilized thump in low brush.

  The SUV broadsided an ancient birch, a shattering jolt that crushed the cargo section, sent glass flying and turned metal into a mad, contorted sculpture that wrapped around the base of the tree. There was nothing in front of them but Lake Vernon, its shore at least fifty feet below. Ben fell face-first into the dashboard and briefly descended into darkness.

  When he awoke, surprised to be alive, Ben found himself crumpled against the passenger door, his body stretched toward the steering wheel, where Walt was slumped, arms dangling to his sides. Blood stained Walt’s forehead. Ben pressed his shoulder against the glove compartment to provide leverage and groaned. He felt fresh blood from the bullet wound in his right shoulder, which must have torn.

  After Ben righted himself, his eyes fell upon the GPS hand-held, which lay at Walt’s feet. The beacon signaling Jamie’s location was strong. His brother reached land, by best guess at the mouth of what must have been Ginny’s Creek. Ben studied the geography and plotted his own approximate location. He examined the wreckage once more, realized the SUV was inches from the edge of the bluff, and laughed at himself.

  “You couldn’t wait, Sheridan? Just had to pull out the gun. Idiot.”

  Ben glanced at his watch. 6:25 a.m. He examined Walt and was not pleased to see the hulking Chancellor’s chest rising and falling. He saw no way out other than the driver’s side.

  He could not find his pistol but remembered the assault rifles in the back. He twisted about and spied an M16 on the opposite side against a crumpled passenger door. Ben contorted his body, grabbed the rifle, and squirmed back into the front seat. His left leg kicked Walt, who slipped off the wheel and fell to his side, his right arm dangling between the seats.

  Ben was ready to finish this, his vengeance for fifteen stolen years consuming him.

  “You bastards ruined me,” Ben whispered as he cocked the rifle.

  Ben’s finger was poised on the trigger, his aim square. Then he heard rustling outside the car, saw human movement in the morning light and a flashlight hitting him in the face. He dropped the rifle to his lap, shielded his eyes, and made out the form of a police officer.

  A deputy, his hair perfectly parted, and his baby face a dead giveaway of inexperience, shouted through the driver-side window.

  “Help is on the way, sir.” The deputy flashed his light throughout the battered car. “I’ve got backup coming, and an ambulance, too. Stay right where you are. Hear? You make any sudden movements, I think she’s going over the edge. How bad is your friend? Can you tell?”

  Ben shook his head as if clueless, but new movement out of the corner of his eye said differently. Walt’s head continued to hang limp, facing the floor, his eyes not visible. Ben, however, saw a subtle shift in the man’s right arm, a slight twist of his forearm muscles … as if he were reaching for something. Ben lowered his right hand and gr
ipped the rifle. The deputy’s flashlight followed his movement and fell upon the M16.

  The deputy drew his weapon, which he cocked.

  “Don’t you move,” he yelled. “Hear me? You so much as blink, I swear I’ll shoot.” The deputy grabbed a two-way mike strapped over his shoulder. “Julius, what’s your status? I’ve got trouble.” Ben didn’t hear the static-laden reply, but he knew his options were running out. “I think it’s them,” the deputy shouted. “The ones who killed the ranger.”

  Walt opened a pair of vengeful eyes and drew a smug smile.

  He rose like a burst of wind, whirled the pistol across his body and fired two shots through the window, shattering the glass. The deputy gasped and fired an indiscriminate shot as he fell backward into the brush.

  Ben grabbed his rifle and fired. Walt growled as a hole opened in his side. The giant Chancellor slung about, kicked at the M16 and lunged toward Ben, who fell back against the passenger door.

  Flames in his eyes, Walt leaped upon Ben and fired the pistol. Ben used his best moves to dodge the bullet, which nicked his ear lobe and continued through the passenger window.

  “You can’t stop this, Sheridan,” Walt said. “Help is on the way. I made sure of it. James will be protected until he awakens.”

  Ben felt an emptiness. “Help? What did you do?”

  Ben thought he heard the pistol fire again, but he had no reckoning of whether he was hit. He felt a sudden descent.

  The Chancellors caught the blood in each other’s startled eyes when they realized, too late, that the SUV lost its mooring around the tree and was falling to the tattered shoreline below.

  Life stopped for a flicker before a spectacular crunch of metal filled their ears as the car smashed into the shore. Both men fell into the dash and against the shattered windshield, which was giving way as the car, briefly standing upright on its engine, swayed, whined and tipped forward.

  Upside down, the car’s disjointed cargo section lay in the water’s edge. Inside, the men lay spread-eagle on their backs, moaning as they rested on what was once the roof.

  Ben kicked out the windshield. He grabbed the rifle, which lay between the men, and squirmed outside. Ben smelled gas, but he paid it no mind.

  Before he rose to his feet, Ben saw Walt move without purpose.

  “What did you do?”

  He strapped the M16 over his left shoulder and scanned for the GPS but didn’t see it. He surveyed the surroundings, examining both the bluff and the thin, debris-filled shoreline to his south. He remembered Jamie’s beacon.

  “I can do this,” he said, reaching for the bloody bullet wound. “Two miles. I can do this.”

  He didn’t know whether the shoreline would be passable, but he didn’t care. Ben ignored his pain and ran.

  31

  E IGHT MILES AWAY, along a dirt road deep within the national forest, Agatha Bidwell awoke to the most repulsive odor she encountered during her exile on this Earth: Cigarette smoke. She coughed as she opened her eyes and saw Christian a few feet away, pulling a long drag. He released smoke through his nose. He was bent down, an M16 slung over his shoulder, as he looked off into the distance.

  Deadening pain radiated through her soaked, shivering body, and every limb lay useless. She refused to die in such disgrace.

  She heard people racing past her, boots on the ground, and shouts like battlefield commands intertwined.

  “What do I most despise about teenagers?” She asked her son.

  Christian dropped his cigarette and leaped to his feet. “Mom,” he said, racing to her with a big smile. “I told this sorry bunch of cowards not to give up on you.”

  He unscrewed the cap on a bottle of water; she took a sip.

  “What do I most despise about teenagers?” She asked again.

  Christian laughed. “Their remarkable capacity to achieve an intellectual mediocrity while in pursuit of a level of sexual fulfillment one might expect to find in their simian ancestors.”

  Agatha nodded despite the pain and reached out to her son.

  “Good man,” she said. “And a wonderful student. So tell me, is the world rid of one particular teenager with long, blond hair and a frightfully annoying disposition?”

  Christian shook his head. “I wish we were, but Huggins has him, and we don’t have a clue where. The son of a bitch … he must have known we were coming. We unloaded so much damned firepower into that lake house. We should’ve killed them all.”

  Agatha’s memory was rubble. She looked around, allowing the setting to jar details into focus. The other observers who sided with her – minus the late Rand Paulus, Arlene Winters, and Dexter Cobb – were present. Three cars and the park ranger’s helicopter were stationed on a narrow dirt road. She sat against a car, ears ringing.

  “At first, Jonathan was sure the explosion must have killed you,” Christian said, “but I told that bastard to bring the chopper down to the water. We fished you out.”

  Christian’s mention of the explosion brought back everything.

  “Help me understand, Christian.” She coughed, and her lungs felt soar. “Where are we now? What is the status of our mission?”

  Christian balled his fists. Agatha told him to calm himself and think without emotional distraction.

  “We did everything we could, but look, Mom, I wouldn’t advise any trips in front of a mirror, at least for a while yet. The cuts and burns on your face … well, there was glass and fire everywhere. Like I said, we did our best. We had to get you out of there quickly. We knew the explosion would draw too much attention, and we couldn’t risk the cops tracking us. We’ve been listening to the police band. They’re worked up. They found the ranger you killed; they found Ignatius and Rand. Add to that a couple of firebombed houses and a stolen helicopter … let’s just say, police are starting to mobilize. We’ve heard them say ‘terrorists’ a couple of times. You know how twitchy people can get these days when they hear the t-word.”

  She touched the bandages on her face. “Where are we, Christian?”

  “Hopefully safe, at least for a time. We landed the helicopter here, then Arthur was able to determine our coordinates and lead the rest of our team to a safe rendezvous.” Christian glanced at his watch. “It’s 6:40, almost an hour since the explosion.”

  Agatha did not want to utter the words.

  “Do you believe we have lost this battle?”

  A pall came over him; before he spoke, Arthur Tynes intervened.

  “Very possibly, Agatha. I’m pleased to see you’re back with us.”

  “Are you?” Agatha grimaced through her pain. “If I’d been left in the water, you would have every reason to abandon the mission and make haste to the fold. Yes?”

  “We would be if it weren’t for Christian. He was the only one who insisted we continue the search. Your son is a remarkable orator when he chooses not to be a considerable jackass.”

  “They were talking retreat,” Christian said with a sneer. “Said we’d already lost too much. Four Chancellors. I told them, ‘Four is an even bigger reason to keep fighting. We don’t go after Sheridan, we don’t take it out on Huggins, then those four died for nothing. If we can’t finish the fight here, then what use we gonna be on the other side?’ That was my case.”

  Arthur groaned. “That, and the barrel of your rifle, conveniently aimed in our direction.”

  “That, too,” Christian mumbled.

  Agatha tried in vain to laugh. “Do you have a new plan, Arthur?”

  “Until we have some tangible clues as to their location, we’re blind. Jonathan is going to take up the chopper and do a complete fly-over of the lake and the surrounding roads. However, time is hardly an ally. The sun is almost up, which does not help matters. Jennifer Bowman is about to leave for Austin Springs. I’ve asked her to remain inconspicuous while there. It’s a slim hope, but it’s also the closest town of any size.”

  “Are you sure she’ll remain as long as we need her?”

  Arthur
nodded. “She’s terrified, but she understands the necessity. Lester wanted to go with her, but we need every resource here.”

  Agatha saw the married forty-something Bowmans embracing beside the first car in the caravan. She never expected the owners of Albion’s only bed-and-breakfast to take part in this endgame. They loved their life; she expected them to go rogue and stay behind.

  “Help me up,” she told Christian. “Call everyone over here.”

  Standing, Agatha ran a hand across her face and felt many cuts; she planned to avoid mirrors.

  The surviving observers cheered her quick recovery as they gathered around. She knew few other sane humans would have gotten to their feet so soon, but the troops needed to see her alert. She began:

  “I have spent most of my life crushing the spirit of those in my orbit in order to achieve sadistic gratification and further my personal objectives. I offer no apologies. My modus operandi has served me well, first through the UG assaults I led on New Caledonia and Xavier’s Garden. Later on, in dealing with those treacherous fools in my presidium. I have stared into the face of my mortality, and I am genuinely humbled.

  “If today should be my last, I wish to leave a different legacy. I can deny Chancellors a future far more bleak than what we are already facing. We know what will happen if these Jewel hybrids come to be. This is a betrayal of our original mission, but we have had the benefit of time to see the truth.

  “We cannot stop the others, but we can stop this one. It gives me no gratification to kill a boy, but I am here to save humanity from itself. If nothing else, may my epitaph speak of that singular accomplishment. We are the heroes. Yes? We gave James his childhood, as we agreed. But we will not allow that abomination to return to our universe. Join me to the end.”

  She saw it in their eyes. There was no more doubt in the rightness of their cause. The pain raced through her like nails, but Agatha did not care.

  Minutes later, after Jennifer Bowman drove away toward Austin Springs and the chopper took flight, Agatha’s determination was rewarded by a desperate man’s voice on the police band.