by Dan Kemp
Martin rested back in his chair, his beaming face one of true glee rather than his usual hateful smirk.
"No," James said, freeing his revolver from its holster and resting the gun on the table. "This is the end, for both of us."
Martin scoffed. "You can't kill me, nor I you. But I won't begrudge you another attempt, if you insist."
"You're right. We can't kill each other, but we can die, if we choose to."
The smile had gone from Martin's face, and he leaned forward with his elbows on the table. "I won't."
“We’ll see.” James gripped the revolver. "You know one thing I never told you? I'm sorry. You're a monster, but I created you. In a way, I'm responsible for all the evil you've done. I'm sorry for the world, that I brought you into it. But I'm also sorry for you, and what I did to make you who you are."
Martin’s expression didn’t change. "Did you think that would change my mind?"
"No. Not at all," James said, raising the revolver. "One more thing, Martin."
"What?"
"Fuck you."
James put the barrel to his temple, the cold metal almost pleasant against his skin. He breathed deep, closing his eyes, then pulled the trigger.
"No!" He heard Martin's cry, as if from a great distance, as the gun fell from his hand, bouncing off the table and then falling to the ground. James's body slumped forward, a great, piercing pain spreading through his skull.
Already, the chorus of voices in his mind was crying out, every fiber of his being fighting to repair itself. He resisted it, holding them all back and the clamor grew louder and louder, his own body begging, pleading with him.
No, James thought.
His body had fallen sideways out of the chair and now he lay on his back, staring up at the ashen red sky. As his vision began to blur, he saw Martin standing over him. Martin’s hands were on him, pouring his own healing energy into James’s body, but he continued to resist it.
Goodbye, Hope.
Though he couldn’t hear her reply, he knew she had heard. A cold, heavy numbness was creeping up his legs, and now his arms. His vision was fading, that dark abyss rushing back in to reclaim him once again, but James wasn’t scared.
At long last, his mind fell silent, and James smiled.
Epilogue
5 years later
The phone, an old blocky handset, began to ring. Halfway out the door of his office, Dorian turned around, flipping the lights back on again.
"Dorian," he said, picking up the phone.
"Hey, boss."
Though he'd have used the same words years ago, the tone of Kristof's voice didn't have the same familiarity to it these days. This was nothing more than an employee addressing his superior. That fact still bothered Dorian.
"Hey, Kristof. How's the western district?"
"Same old shit. Couple of fliers tore a hole in our mesh overnight, but nobody injured."
"Glad to hear it," Dorian said. "Need anything?"
"Nah, we've got it under control. Just reporting in."
"Anything else?"
"That's it for today."
"Alright." Dorian paused. "Want to get a drink or something?"
"Not tonight."
Dorian let the silence hang for a moment. "Another time, then. Have a good night."
"Yeah." Click.
Dorian set the phone back on its cradle. He hit the lights once again and locked the door behind him.
The short hallway was empty aside from himself, the handful of other office doors already closed for the evening. Overhead, some of the fluorescent lights were burnt out. He made a mental note to report that to maintenance.
The metal door at the end of the hall opened with a squeal and slammed shut behind him. Dorian took the steps two at a time, up three flights until the stairs ended abruptly at another door. He emerged onto the roof and out into the cool evening air.
Dorian leaned against the railing. Five stories below, a handful of people strolled along the sidewalk and a man on a bicycle cruised past. The sun was just beginning to set, and he watched as the streetlights switched on.
There, a short distance to the west, he could see the old city. What had once been the entirety of Black Creek, built by his own hand, was now dwarfed by the sprawling city which surrounded it on three sides. Deep Creek Lake, still the source of the vast majority of their power, remained its fourth border.
The old walls still stood, though the gates were open and would always stay that way, unless an emergency rendered the two outer districts unsafe. The eastern district of the city stretched so far and wide that even from this high vantage, Dorian could barely glimpse the outer walls. Likewise for the walls and gate which joined the eastern and western districts.
Patches of trees and greenery still broke up the expanses of buildings. This time of year, the leaves were a hundred shades of red, orange, and yellow.
Dorian was startled out of his daze by the sound of cheering and applause from behind him. Curious, he crossed the rooftop and looked out in the opposite direction. A crowd of about fifty people were gathered in front of a new-looking building.
Ah shit, Dorian thought. It's Friday already?
The crowd was clapping as a chubby man in a black chef's hat sliced the ceremonial ribbon tied across the doors of the restaurant. When the applause died down, he spoke into a portable microphone which echoed up to Dorian.
"Thank you all for coming to Marco's, Black Creek's first and only steakhouse!" There was more applause. Dorian had meant to get a reservation.
"I want to thank Mayor Jessica Neil, who we are honored to have as our very first guest."
It was only then that he noticed the two women standing next to him. Though he couldn’t tell from this height, it could only be her. The cheering was even more enthusiastic this time.
She was speaking now. "Thanks everybody. Thanks Marco. Rachel and I are happy to be here. I also want to thank Caleb Burton, mayor of New Columbus, for joining us tonight. It's been a very productive visit, I'm sure he would agree." A man nearby waved meekly to the crowd.
Dorian had seen enough, so he went back inside and jogged down the stairs.
Jess had played him like a damned fool, and his bitterness over it had eaten at him for a long time after. Now though, Dorian was at peace with it. Things weren't as simple as they had been when he was in charge. The world was moving on.
Although whatever was left of the government had been obliterated five years ago, civilization was rebuilding. There were four large cities like Black Creek on the East Coast, and as many each in the midwest and on the West Coast. By the time they had each coalesced, it didn't take long for them to begin trading.
Trading meant diplomacy, and things would get complicated. Less fun. Dorian knew himself well enough to know he wanted no part of that anymore. And he still loved his job.
An older man passing him on the sidewalk smiled and stuck his hand out. "Mr. Black, sir," the man said.
Dorian returned the smile and gave him a firm handshake, patting him on the shoulder. He had built something great here. That was something to be proud of. Many of the people here still loved him, still remembered everything he'd done for them.
He checked his watch. 6:15. He'd need to be home soon, but there was still time for one more stop.
Dorian made his way west, toward the old city. Black Creek had everything a city needed these days. He passed a grocery store, a church and a temple, a barber. There, just by the junction of the old city and the eastern district, was the Black Creek hospital, where old Dr. Brandt still made rounds as far as Dorian knew, though not alone anymore.
He nodded to a pair of police officers standing on a street corner, their uniform displaying the 'Black Creek Police Department' seal.
"Commander," one said, noticing him.
There was, officially, no chain of command between himself and the police. As he had originally designed, the police department had full authority over all goings-on within Bla
ck Creek. Dorian and his Guard were responsible for the protection of the city from the outside. Still, the officer rank-and-file usually showed him some deference.
He passed through the gates into the old city, crossed the little bridge over the creek as he went through the park, and before long he had arrived. The large homes near the wall, with a nice view of a thicket of trees out back, were some of the most sought-after in the city. This one though, would never go on the market.
Dorian didn't bother ringing the doorbell, instead walking around to the back patio where he knew she would be. Hope sat on the little bench swing, looking not a day older and no less beautiful than the day he'd first met her.
"Hey, Dorian," she said, putting down the book she'd been reading.
"How are you?" He took a seat on one of the chairs nearby, pulling it around so they would face each other as they spoke.
"I'm doing well," she said. "How was your day?"
"Fairly uneventful."
"Nothing wrong with that," she said.
"Not at all," Dorian lied. Hope smiled, a subtle reminder that she had every bit as keen a sense for reading people as her husband had.
"How's the new batch of kids?" Dorian asked.
"Getting bigger each year. It's growth, though. It's good."
Hope still taught the younger grades at the Old City School. The district wasn't large enough to be worth splitting into multiple schools. The eastern and western each had their own elementary, middle, and high schools.
They sat together for a little while. At one point, Hope brought them each a glass of lemonade from inside. As he took his first sip, a loud roar echoed in from the forest outside the walls before fading into the distance. Neither of them much reacted to it.
"I miss him," Dorian said.
"I know," Hope said.
"Don't you?"
"Of course. But it's different for me."
"What do you mean?" Dorian asked.
"When he was here, we could always just feel each other, no matter how far away we were. It was the same with Martin. On that day, Martin's spirit, whatever you want to call it, went away. James's did too, sort of, but not completely. You know, he told me he thought he might be god." She chuckled softly when she said that. "Maybe he is. He might not be here, with us, but he's not gone. I can feel him all around me, just right there at the edge of my senses. He's in every gust of wind and every drop of rain. Sometimes I feel like if I turn my head quick enough I could catch a glimpse of him."
"Does that make it easier for you?" Dorian asked.
"A little," Hope said.
"Me too, I guess."
"One day, I'll go to be with him, wherever he is. He walked this earth for millions and millions of years. There's still more I'd like to see here, before I go."
Dorian quickly brushed the beginning of a tear away from his eye, standing up. "I should get going. Do you need anything?"
"No, thank you. I'm good. What about you, Dorian?"
"Yeah," he said. "I'm good."
Dorian still lived in the same house, and it was still one of the nicer ones in the old city. He slipped through the little metal gate and up the path to the front door, which was unlocked. He stepped out of his shoes and loosened his tie as he entered the bedroom. Unbuttoning his shirt, a cool gust blew across his face as the air conditioning turned on.
Minutes later, and now wearing more comfortable clothes, he walked into the kitchen, where the pleasant scent of garlic was emanating from the oven. His wife stood at the stove, humming to herself with headphones over her ears as she stirred sauce in a pot.
Dorian stepped up behind her, pulling her into a tight embrace and kissing her on her neck. She started, then laughed, pulling off her headphones and turning around to join his lips with hers. Her protruding abdomen, seven months pregnant now, pressed against his.
"I didn't hear you come in," Skye said.
"Enjoying that?" Dorian asked, indicating the iPod she was setting down on the counter. It had taken him quite a while to find a working one outside the walls.
"Yes. Thank you." She grazed a hand across his cheek, turning back again to stir the sauce.
Dorian set the table and they sat down, each with a plate of spaghetti and a hunk of garlic bread. He swallowed a mouthful. "It's great," Dorian said, and it was.
"I saw a couple of your officers slacking off near the gates," Dorian said.
"Oh? You think the men haven't been instructed to keep an eye on the Chief's husband?" Skye said with a raised eyebrow.
Dorian laughed. "Ah. I should have known." Skye edged her hand across the table, closer to his, and he laid his own on top of it.
"Going for a walk tonight?"
"I think I will," Dorian said.
"Want me to come?"
"Up to you. I’m fine if you stay."
"Okay. I am pretty tired." There was no subtext to the exchange, no expectation of him either way.
When they finished, Dorian put away the dishes while Skye went to lie down. He pulled a little messenger bag out of the hall closet, slipping it around his neck and lacing up his boots before stopping at the doorway of the bedroom.
Skye smiled at him from the bed, a book draped across her chest. "Heading out?"
"Yeah."
"I'll be here when you get back."
"I know."
Dorian stepped out into the cool night air, locking the door behind him. His neighbor, working in his garden, waved to him, and he returned the gesture.
The lights of the city were on in full now as he wound his way out of the old city and into the western district. A raucous but good-spirited crowd could be heard from inside a bar as he passed by. In a park, a group of teens were playing football. Dorian Black had built a great many things in his life, but nothing compared to this. Black Creek would be his legacy, long after he was dead.
Here, near the outskirts of the western district, things were much quieter. He walked up and down the streets for an hour or so, until finally he heard it. A woman's scream, no more than a block away. Dorian smiled, opening his bag and slipping a black ski mask over his face. There, too, was his black 9mm pistol.
Just around the corner, in the dark section of a small park, he found them. The woman was pressed up against a tree by the masked man. Though she thrashed and fought, he held her firm with his hand over her mouth, so she couldn’t scream again. There was nobody else in sight, and the man couldn’t have seen him coming.
Dorian seized the man by his shoulder, tearing him away from the girl and throwing him hard to the ground. In an instant she was gone, running away down the sidewalk. The man made a move for a knife at his waist, and Dorian stomped on it. The man's howl told him the tip of his blade must have punctured his groin.
He reared his foot back and struck once, twice, three times to the man's ribs. He coughed and sputtered blood, his chest rising heavily in search of breath.
Dorian reached down and pulled the man's mask off. His face, wracked with pain and fear, was not one he recognized. The rapist swung at him and Dorian stepped slightly back, catching hold of the man's wrist and twisting it violently until the man rolled over on his stomach. With his other hand, he pressed the gun to the back of the man's head.
"Please," he whimpered.
Dorian laughed. "Nah."
He fired, and the man went limp against the grass. Dorian slipped the gun back inside his bag, jogging quickly across the street and around the corner. When he was a block away, he pulled the mask off and stuffed it into his pocket.
Dorian took a few deep breaths of the cold night, a smile growing across his face as a distant siren blared to life. He'd never felt fucking better.
Thanks for reading.
I truly hope you’ve enjoyed this story. Whether you did or not, please consider leaving a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads.
I want to thank a few people for their support.
First, my wife, Sara, who not only read this book multiple times but also
had to hear about my excitement, fear, frustration, and joy about this story for years.
Next, I want to thank my good friend Joe C. Without all those late nights years ago spent brainstorming and riffing ideas off of each other, I doubt this book would have ever come into existence.
