The Ferryman Institute

by Colin Gigl

  With a few powerful strokes, he rose above the surface again, cresting it with ease. The water no longer bothered him, nor did the wayward gulps of seawater send him into coughing fits. The look on Charles’s face must have betrayed his thoughts, as Cartwright unexpectedly burst into laughter.

  “Surprised?” said the man.

  Charles’s stunned silence spoke for him.

  “Come,” Cartwright said, offering his hand to the still treading sailor. “A whole new world has just been opened to you.”

  Charles grabbed it and was pulled up beyond the threshold of the floating door. Cartwright closed the door to the violent ocean, and with a small click, the roaring noise disappeared. The pair stood in a perfectly blank hallway, its walls and ceilings so devoid of anything that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Across from the entranceway Charles had just been pulled through—the one that had moments ago been suspended above the Atlantic—was another door, squat in shape and dull brown in color with a surface marred by scratches and nicks. A small plaque sat affixed to the center of it.

  Charles surveyed his new surroundings, and came to the rational conclusion that absolutely nothing going on made any sense whatsoever. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  There was a faint air of amusement to Cartwright’s expression, or at least that’s what Charles thought. “Shall we start with a question in particular, then, and proceed from there?” Cartwright asked.

  “I’m alive,” Charles replied.

  Cartwright laughed. “So you are, even if that wasn’t a question in the literal sense.”

  His heart raced at the idea that somehow, in the most unbelievable circumstances, he’d cheated death. Or had he? Was this all a dream, or perhaps the beginning of the afterlife in its own right? Charles rubbed his face. He could feel his fingers kneading into his flesh, yet as he pressed harder and harder, he experienced no discomfort. With two fingers, he pinched the skin on the back of his hand. Nothing.

  “I don’t feel any pain,” he said. The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying.

  “Nor should you,” Cartwright said as he took a step toward the far door. “You’re a Ferryman now. That is one of the many benefactions granted to us, immortality being another, as you can clearly see. Now, if you’ll follow me to—”

  But before he could take another step, Charles grabbed him by the arm. “My wife. I need to see her.”

  As the words reached Cartwright’s ears, the vague glow of humor disappeared from his face. “Your wife?” he asked.

  “Yes! Elizabeth Dawson. I have to let her know I’m alive. When can I see her? It has to be soon—if we wait too long, she’ll assume the worst. I can’t do that to her.”

  “I’m afraid . . .” Cartwright paused, deliberately averting his gaze. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

  “You have . . . bad news? What of it? Is she hurt? Sick?”

  “Good heavens, no. At least, not so far as I know. Now, where to start . . . You see, Charles—may I call you Charles?—a Ferryman is rather special. We are neither living nor dead—not completely man, not completely spirit. Ferrymen exist between worlds, acting as guides to show the recently passed to their next life. Do you understand?”

  “No,” Charles said, “not at all.”

  Cartwright ran his fingers through his mustache. “Well, I certainly appreciate the honesty. What it means, my good man, is that this life—this new life—is no extension of your past one. There are rules, I’m afraid—rules we must abide lest we bring about the end of mankind.”

  “What are you saying, sir?”

  Cartwright hesitated, and as the silence stretched from one beat, to two, then three, Charles loosened his grip. He sensed what was coming next, before Cartwright even said it.

  A pained expression lurched across Cartwright’s face. “I’m saying you cannot go back to her, Charles. I’m truly sorry.”

  “No . . . ,” Charles said, his hand falling to his side. “I thought . . . No, but you saved me. Why am I still here if not to see Elizabeth?” He shook his head. “You’re mistaken, sir. This place you speak of will understand my cause. I’m sure of it.”

  Cartwright put his hands on both of Charles’s shoulders, grasping them tight. “They may very well—love is indeed our noblest and purest pursuit. And I do not mean to suggest you will never see your wife again. Do not lose that hope. However, that you are here evinces that you have been called to serve a higher cause.” Slowly, he released his grip, turning one hand behind Charles’s back to better lead him toward the battered brown door.

  “Do you say true?” Charles asked.

  “Humility aside for a moment, I am skilled at many things, Charles. I do not place lying on that list. But there will be time to discuss everything. For now, let me say this . . .” As they arrived at the door at the far end of the hall, Cartwright slowly wrapped his fingers around the handle. The fascinating glimmer in his eyes had returned, his gaze fixed on Charles.

  “Welcome to the Ferryman Institute.” Cartwright swung the door open.

  Though Charles certainly felt overwhelmed not only by what but also by how fast everything was happening, he couldn’t deny that there was something that felt incredibly right just then. It was as if his previous life had been a droning chord hampered by one note faintly out of key, but now—now, with the door open—it was finally ringing true. For that moment, his sense of loss melted away, replaced by something entirely unlike anything he’d ever felt before—like this door had been waiting for him, and him alone, to arrive.

  Without a word, Charles followed Cartwright’s footsteps, and the two of them entered the Ferryman Institute.

  JAVROUCHE

  * * *

  BAD COP, BAD COP

  Mssr. Dupine,” Javrouche began, “you appear to be a reasonable man. Can I ask—what on earth possessed you to push Mssr. Dawson through that door?”

  The navigator wriggled against the taut rope that held him in place, but found it devoid of even the slightest bit of slack. That was intended, of course—his wrists, upper arms, thighs, and ankles were tied fast against the steel chair. Aside from a bandana tied across his eyes and the rope, however, he was completely naked. The Inspector had arranged for that as well.

  “You do realize that we now have to classify your partner as a magnitude-zero threat: a Ferryman, believed to be a traitor, location unknown. It doesn’t get worse than that, I’m afraid. Given this development, I hope you can understand that time is a commodity I can ill afford to squander. I need answers, Mssr. Dupine, and quickly.”

  When Dirkley made no effort to reply—whether out of defiance or sheer terror, Javrouche couldn’t say—the Inspector sighed dramatically. “Talkative one, aren’t you? Remove his blindfold, Koroviev.”

  The blindfold was taken away, revealing just what Javrouche had planned for Charlie Dawson’s navigator. The chair hung about fifty feet in the air, suspended above a giant vat filled with a perfectly clear liquid. The vat itself was easily twelve feet tall, with an inner lining composed of one smooth and continuous metal surface. Underneath the blindfold, Javrouche had attached a device that forced both of Dirkley’s eyes open at all times. It looked similar to an eyelash curler, only one invented by the Spanish Inquisition.

  “A nice-looking bath, don’t you think? I’d heard rumors that you’ve been neglecting to clean behind your ears. Fear not, Mssr. Dupine—I won’t allow you to fall victim to poor hygiene. Cleanliness is next to godliness, after all.” Javrouche slapped the side of the vat several times, each reverberation of the dull metal echoing loudly in the large room. “Although I suppose it’s worth pointing out that the liquid inside this vat isn’t water. I figured we needed a cleaning agent with a bit more oomph to it.”

  From a personal standpoint, Javrouche had nothing against the navigator, aside from his close association with Dawson, at least. He was a quiet, unassuming man who’d earned high marks in all of his performance reviews.
Unfortunately, he now held information Javrouche needed. With the Institute’s security at risk, dehumanizing insults were the tip of the iceberg.

  The Inspector stared fiercely into the unblinking eyes of Dirkley Dupine, but still the navigator remained silent. “Koroviev, am I correct in saying that we didn’t tie down Mssr. Dupine’s tongue?”

  An old catwalk hung near the massive ceiling in the room, snaking its way around most of the warehouse. From the area near Dirkley’s chair, the lieutenant poked his head over the rail. “That’s correct, sir.”

  Javrouche nodded thoughtfully at that. “I thought so. Can you think of any other reason why our good friend Mssr. Dupine has suddenly gone mute? Some rare Ferryman-specific disorder that I might be overlooking? Or perhaps he’s so terrified that he’s evacuated his vocal cords out his bowels?”

  There was a brief pause while the Russian lieutenant evidently considered the Inspector’s question. “I don’t think that’s possible, sir.”

  “I didn’t think so, either. In that case, there are two ways we can play this, Mssr. Dupine. You can tell me everything you know about our current predicament—your details on Mlle. Alice Spiegel, why Mssr. Dawson saved her, where they’re headed, so on and so forth—or I can explain to you not only what you happen to be suspended above, but why you are suspended above it.”

  Dirkley stirred in his seat, then, half whimpering, said, “I don’t know. I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything.”

  The Inspector shook his head in disappointment. He’d hoped to avoid this part of the game, but such was life. “You don’t know. Of course you don’t. No one in that chair ever does.” Javrouche made a signal, and with a sudden, awkward lurch, the chair began to descend.

  The navigator didn’t appear to like this new development very much. “Honestly, I don’t know!” he shouted, panic woven into his voice.

  “Honestly, Mssr. Dupine? Why honestly? Were you lying to me before?” The words came sweetly from Javrouche’s mouth, his face fixed with a look of interest as the navigator sank lower and lower.

  “N-n-no! I don’t know!” Dirkley yelled again.

  With another wave of Javrouche’s hand, the chair came to an immediate stop. It swayed gently back and forth, creaking mildly with each small swing.

  Javrouche had been many things in his former life—he simply had to be, given the poverty he’d been born into. Yet, ironically enough, the skills that had been his greatest asset as the Institute’s police authority all were acquired from his time as a thief. His ability to read people—the drunken baker, the violent constable, the naive bourgeois girls—was a hard-won talent that had saved his life on more than one occasion. He trusted it intrinsically. And there, standing beneath the cowering form of Dupine, it told him the navigator was telling the truth.

  Logically, however, that made no sense. Dupine had to know—the alternative was unconscionable. Right now, he was Javrouche’s only lead, and the farther away that Dawson got from Alice Spiegel’s bedroom, the harder he would be to track down. There were answers Javrouche needed, and he needed them immediately.

  “So option number two it is, then. Now, I know what you’re thinking—what could I possibly do to torture you? We can’t feel pain, after all. I could proceed with a form of mental torture, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. Answers, Mssr. Dupine—that is the magic word. That being the case, I’ve prepared something unique to immortals. Consider it a Ferryman original.

  “The vat you happen to be hanging precariously above is filled with one of the most corrosive substances known to man—hydrofluoric acid. It penetrates the tissue, enters the bloodstream, and from there, it can wreak all kinds of havoc, including cardiac arrest. But that’s of no concern to immortals like us. However, hydrofluoric acid is unique in that it is an incredibly penetrative substance. It will seep deep, deep into your tissue. From there, the fluoride cations mix with the calcium in your bones, which causes the calcium to dissociate. Do you know what the means?” Javrouche didn’t wait for an answer. “It essentially means your bones slowly liquefy inside you. Then it’s only a matter of time before the rest of your body follows suit. You will, in essence, melt.”

  Javrouche signaled again with his hand, and with a sudden jerk, the chair Dupine was helplessly strapped into once again teetered downward. His feet dangled just above the fluid line of the vat.

  “Imagine that, Mssr. Dupine—what it must be like to watch yourself simply dissolve into a glorified puddle. I’ve heard it can be quite psychologically scarring. What’s worse, though, is what happens after your head is submerged and your eyes begin to liquefy into soup. After that, everything goes black. No sight, no sound, not even the feel of your own body—just you and your thoughts. That is how you will remain until we drain the vat and the magic of the Institute begins to reassemble you. However, if your answers remain, shall we say, unenlightening, then there’s a chance ‘until we drain the vat’ becomes ‘if we drain the vat.’ A month is an agonizingly long time to be left alone with only your thoughts to keep you company. Now imagine that, but over a quarter of a century.”

  It was a mostly empty threat, whether Dupine knew it or not. Even stretching his expanded authority in emergency situations to its absolute limit, Javrouche had no authorization to do that. The acid bath was, by and large, a big show. If a subject was going to talk, they’d start soon after their big toes began dribbling away, if not well before.

  Yet these were extraordinary times. There was a growing voice in the Inspector’s mind that was preaching to do whatever it took to protect the Ferryman Institute—authorized or not.

  Dupine squirmed anxiously in his bonds. Javrouche would have bet the navigator’s eyes would have been just as wide without their restraints.

  “I—” Dirkley croaked. “I told you I don’t know. It was a special assignment. I wasn’t . . .” He swallowed hard, an action that didn’t escape the Inspector’s attention. “I was at the library when it came in. I only joined the case when it was in progress. I–I don’t have any notes. I didn’t even know the subject’s name until you said it. I swear it. I don’t know where Charlie is right now. Please believe me.”

  Javrouche frowned. He began pacing beneath the hanging navigator. “Really? You have no idea what’s going on?”

  Dupine shook his head violently.

  Javrouche could feel his patience evaporating. “Koroviev, bring out Mme. Johnson, please.”

  The Inspector had suspected early on that while Dupine might shrink away from threats, he wouldn’t bend to them—that was clear enough given his act of self-sacrifice for Dawson earlier. However, what if the Inspector turned that selflessness against the navigator?

  There was the clanking of chains as another seat slowly began to lower from the ceiling. Melissa Johnson sat in an identical metallic chair, bound in almost exactly the same fashion as Dupine. The only additional measure to her restraints was a simple gag placed in her mouth. She struggled ferociously against her bonds as she descended. The Inspector watched with a detached ambivalence as Dupine renewed his own struggle against the ropes.

  “You wouldn’t,” he said with a mix of seething rage and abject horror.

  It was exactly the reaction Javrouche had been hoping for. Now all there was left to do was turn the screw. “You give me too much credit, Mssr. Dupine. Call me barbaric, but with Mssr. Dawson’s disappearance and therefore the continued existence of mankind hanging in the balance, I hope you’ll forgive me for not giving a shit.”

  He stood directly in front of Dupine and stared into his eyes. “In my former life, I had a child. A son. His name was Henri, the son of a whore I’d paid to sleep with me using what little money I had. Unfortunately for her, giving birth to that boy was the last thing she ever did. I don’t even know if he was mine, but I took him in for reasons I will never quite understand. You have to remember, Mssr. Dupine—in addition to his questionable paternal lineage, there was the very practical matter of barely being able to support myself at
the time. But despite it all, I came to love that boy. He was my son.”

  For a moment, Javrouche fell backward in time, slipping into memories long forgotten. There they stood, side by side, backs pressed against the bakery wall, smiling despite their meager shelter from the deluge blanketing the back alleys of Paris. His son was laughing—something to do with the monkeys they’d just seen at the Jardin des Plantes zoo for his birthday—the large birthmark on his cheek standing out despite the mud smeared across his face. Their bellies were full—a welcome change—and the air was warm even with the rain. It felt like, for once, the universe had decided to briefly smile on them.

  Then the memory slid through his grasp, an ethereal strand of silk too fine for him to hold for more than an instant, and disappeared.

  Melissa’s chair lowered steadily, the clink and clank of its chains filling the momentary silence that had ensued. Slowly, the Inspector picked up his words again.

  “And do you know what that boy made me realize, Mssr. Dupine? That sometimes you need to use whatever means necessary to protect something you love. My son is gone now, has been for too long. This place is all I have left. And unlike with my son, I plan to do whatever is necessary to save it.”

  The acerbic tone had fallen away, his voice strangely quiet. For a time he said nothing, shrouding himself instead in introspective silence while a fighting Melissa was lowered down until her chair was aligned evenly with Dupine’s.

  “As you can see, Mssr. Dupine, your manager is in as much trouble as you are. Now, here’s what’s going to happen. I will be back in ten minutes. If you haven’t come up with a better answer to my questions by then, I will leave it to my friend Koroviev to demonstrate all those wonderful things I explained to you on Mme. Johnson. And you will watch every single second of it. Mssr. Dawson has already cost me one dear thing in my life. I won’t allow him to do it again.”

  The Inspector was already walking out of the room, the tap tap of his feet muffled by the shabby concrete floor. When he reached the exit, he stopped. Slowly, he turned, his expression blank. “Whatever it takes, Mssr. Dupine. Whatever it takes.”