The Last in Line

by Thom Erb

  He'd driven a few feet before they came to a stop sign and, out of reflex, Warren stopped and looked both ways. From his vantage point, Main Street was empty. A few cars sat where their owners had left them, the drivers’ fates unknown. The moon shone down on the main drag and lit the shops and businesses. It was only two months ago that Warren was last here. Today, it seemed like he entered an alternate universe where it was a foreign world to him now. The stories of Thomas Covenant and Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land crossed his mind. This isn’t any fiction I’ve ever read, he realized.

  Warren pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes, trying to formulate a plan. He needed supplies. Maico woke up and stretched. His nose immediately rose in the air and took in what the half-open window had to offer. Warren offered up a scratch behind the ears, and the canine responded with a tail wag.

  “Unflappable pooch.” Warren shook his head, letting out a small smirk.

  He had his dad’s shotgun and a few rounds, that was it. Looking down the barren street, the guilt of selfishness hit him and brought him back to the present. The one word that kept going through his mind was loss.

  “We're gonna need some chow, buddy?” Warren said. “Well, Cramer's Grocery used to have all kinds of food, but who knows what’s left, other than the Stop-n-Go out on Route 21, that’s about it.” He shrugged and motioned south with his hands.

  “Think Dex is up there?” He pointed to the second story of a brick building on the left side of the street that housed a white sign with black lettering: “Arcadia Falls, NY Post Office.” The memories of the great times they’d had rushed through his mind. He caught himself thinking in past tense and it shadowed him. He fought hard to hide the tears in his eyes.

  Warren swore he heard his dad's harsh words about Dex and his brother, and it only made him angrier. He felt guilty for not checking on his best friend sooner. Warren tried to wipe the guilt from his cheeks, but he was fairly certain those tears might as well have been tattoos.

  “Okay, tough guy, let's do this.” Warren smiled, swallowed the rest of his tears and drove onto Main Street.

  He pulled into a parking spot in front of the post office. Its large plate glass window was no longer there. It now lay in a million pieces on the cement sidewalk, and there was complete darkness within.

  Warren put the truck into park, took a deep breath, and looked at his fellow truck-mate. Maico perked up and looked about, ready for action.

  He grabbed the shotgun from the gun rack and the flashlight from inside the door pouch. He got out of the truck and looked around the abandoned street. Muddy puddles dotted the pavement from the previous night’s storm. The air was thick, rising in steamy sheets from the blacktop.

  His eyes darted back and forth. The street was empty save for a few cars with their doors wide open, waiting for their owners to return. Warren double-checked his shotgun to make sure it was loaded. “I'm pretty sure not seeing anyone is a pretty damn good thing.” He looked up at the second-story windows of Dex and Barry’s apartment. All was dark, and one window was shattered. Its glass mingled with the post office’s.

  The eerie silence was broken by a lone bark of a dog way off in the distance.

  “Good luck, lil’ pooch.” Warren offered up the closest thing to a prayer he could muster and stepped up on the cement stairs that led to the door to the building.

  The glass crunched under Warren’s sneakered-feet and echoed off the buildings across the street. Warren stopped, his heart pounding in his chest as he waited for the tell-tale sounds that he’d given himself away.

  He paused and waited.

  Nothing came.

  The building, like all the buildings on the left side of Main Street, was connected one to another. The door to Dex’s apartment sat sandwiched between the post office to the left and the Pizza Stop to its right. Warren continued toward the brown door, which lay wide open, letting the darkness escape from within the stairway that led up to the apartment.

  Warren looked back at the truck, making sure Maico was okay. The pooch's breath fogged up the window.

  He took a deep breath, and then stepped into the darkened stairway.

  Warren flipped on the flashlight and its’ small beam shattered the darkness, where it ran, fleeing to the corners of the walls and stairway of the old building. The musty smell of stagnant water and death ruled the air, and a trace of gunpowder hung in the thickness as well. Warren shone the light up the stairs, and nothing seemed to move above. He ascended the rickety steps until he reached the top. The crunch of empty beer cans sounded beneath his feet.

  Dex’s apartment lay at the top of the stairs. Empty cigarette packs and crushed Budweiser cans filled the landing. Warren felt an overwhelming sadness creeping in as he stood in the splintered doorway to his best friend’s apartment.

  The air grew even more pungent with the smell of mold and decay on the second floor. Warren stepped in and scanned the living room with the flashlight. His hands shook and beads of sweat rolled down his face.

  The apartment sat in heavy darkness. The only light came from the intruding moonlight and Warren’s small beam. The air grew thicker, choking. Not a sound came from within. Warren scanned the living room with the flashlight and found broken pieces of furniture. Thick, dried blood coated the floors and walls. A well-used dartboard hung off-kilter. One lone dart clung to its bull's eye. The heavy air seemed to grow and, with it, the breathable air seemed to deplete.

  It didn't look like anyone was in there, but Warren forced himself to continue.

  The living room lay littered with more empty beer cans and ashtrays. A glow-in-the dark, blacklight Iron Maiden poster caught the ray of the flashlight and illuminated the smiling red face of Satan, stoking the flames of hell with his pitchfork. The chilling image sent ripples of goose bumps racing over Warren's skin.

  Something rustled in the kitchen, breaking the nerve-wracked silence. Warren spun, the shotgun raised toward the sounds.

  He slowly crossed the living room, thrust the shotgun and flashlight into the dark kitchen, and let a high-pitched scream escape.

  Countless engorged rats screeched and scuttled forward, hissed at Warren, and scampered off into the darkness, away from the intrusive light.

  The kitchen sat empty save many old cases of Coors light cans and Ramen noodle packages, which littered the floor. Warren's beam landed on a dark splatter of blood that led off to the right, toward Barry’s bedroom.

  “Holy shit. What the hell?” The sound of his own voice caused Warren to jump. He crept to the bedroom door and brought the flashlight up to eye-level. The beam split the blackness of the small room. It was spartan, only a bed with disheveled sheets and a wooden dresser inside. Warren entered to find crimson-stained sheets. The room smelled putrid. There were signs of a struggle, yet there were no bodies, dead or undead, to be found.

  Warren spotted a sheet of notebook paper attached to the wall with thumbtacks. Its shredded edges hung like jagged teeth. He examined the paper and stooped closer to see it. After a moment, his heart pounded, realizing what he was looking at. On the lined notebook paper, someone had crudely drawn an image. In ballpoint pen, a large black circle with a smaller circle in the center. From the bottom-left of the smaller circle, was an inverted letter V-shape extending outward to the bottom-right of the outer circle. A series of small pentagrams with a goat’s head were crudely drawn all around the main image. All around that large circle, were strange words scrawled in an odd language. Warren didn't understand the words or the accompanying image. The only aspect of the bizarre note was Barry’s signature. As he looked closer, his stomach churned and an overwhelming sense of dread filled him. Barry’s glow-in-the-dark wasn’t in blue ballpoint ink, no. It was written in red.

  Blood red.

  Warren knew Barry was into all kinds of sick, satanic crap, but never dreamt of something like this. Panic joined the powerful sense of dread, and he thought he might have a heart attack right there.

&
nbsp; “I-I never thought he'd actually go through with it.” Warren slowly felt shock and fear wash over him.

  “Shit,” he said aloud at finally realizing what the crude drawing and words meant.

  “A contract. A summoning contract.” Warren heard the words escape from his mouth, as his mind swirled. His pulse pounded in his temples and his already chaotic mind filled with old memories and unworldly connections as to what the hell was actually happening. He fought to catch his breath as his sane, reality was torn away.

  “This was a...ah...contract!” Warren shouted, sending some rats fleeing the panic.

  He had always known of Barry’s fascination with all things dark and evil but only believed it to be a clever move to get women. Barry's obsession was more serious than Warren had ever imagined.

  “That scumbag was summoning freakin' demons. To...to, he-he was selling. Sold his damn soul!” The words seemed preposterous coming from his mouth.

  A wider sweep of his flashlight revealed a pentagram of blood circling the entire bedroom floor. The cold air grew thicker still, and he fought to keep his breath.

  Warren jumped as a distant scream started low at first and slowly rose in pitch and pain. It rose to an ear-splitting crescendo and seemed to come from inside the closed closet on the far side of the room. The scream turned to an unearthly howl, and Warren fought to keep all his senses about as he felt tears in his eyes, and a sudden overwhelming heaviness overtook him. He needed to get out and fast. Fighting to keep from screaming, he ran through the doorway toward the living room. He didn’t know why, but deep down, something gripped his heart, his soul, in that room. His only urge was to get the hell out as fast as possible. He surprised himself when he barely touched the steps as he rushed out of the apartment.

  Once outside, the overwhelming feeling of oppressive evil left him, but the horrific, shadow-filled repercussions of what Barry had done weighed heavy on him.

  22.

  Hello, America

  Elton Reese Habersham III reclined in his old leather-bound easy chair. His feet clad in wool slippers rested upon the matching hassock. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, he reached out for the snifter of hundred-year-old cognac on the oak table.

  The library at the Habersham estate was over two hundred years old, and its contents had been slowly acquired by Elton’s ancestors. The twenty-foot tall ceilings arched overhead where oak bookcases met on all four walls. Shelves filled with a myriad of tomes from different times and places and in as many different languages. The western wall was dedicated to religious text and those relating to the occult and supernatural. Some were codices, or manuals, on demonology and prophecy. However, on this night, Elton needed a short sabbatical from his daily call and was excited to settle down with two of his closest friends, one-hundred-year-old Masion Dugdognon Cognac and James Joyce. He didn’t get much time for his own recreational pursuits, so when the quiet evening offered up this rare opportunity, he snatched it and looked forward to a few hours of escape.

  Elton was the last in a long line of Habershams that were bestowed with a powerful duty. The duty was known in underground circles only, and the surface world would scoff at what they were appointed to do.

  Elton took a long smell of his snifter, closed his eyes, and embraced the heavenly scent of the cognac, and he let out a small hum of ecstasy. He drew slowly from the crystal glass and swallowed with the same speed. He placed the glass softly back in its place upon the table and lifted the heavy tome, adjusting his glasses on his pale cheeks.

  “Ah, Mr. Joyce, it’s good to see you again, old chap,” Elton said as a man both content and full of anticipation.

  “‘One by one, they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.’”

  The beautiful words of Joyce, while cumbersome and confusing to some, were a comfort to Elton. As comfortable as the well-worn leather chair he was nestled in.

  A loud crash woke Elton from his solace-filled slumber. “Bloody hell! Just another damn, dream.” Elton cursed. The only light in the room was that of small shafts of moonlight slicing through spaces of the four boarded-up windows. A second loud crash came, louder and accompanied by several soulless moans. Elton shivered as he shook his head awake and sat up on the soiled mattress that offered the only seat the empty apartment had to offer. The room was spartan save only the bed Elton sat on and a small table, which held a battery powered lantern and half an empty bottle of cheap bourbon.

  The dream was a reoccurring nightly tradition. His current situation was a far cry from the world he had known before the fall of man and the rise of the dead. Elton pondered this several thousand times over the past two months. Everything in the dream was true. The Habersham family estate, the large library, and the most important fact, the family’s lifetime charge as part of a network of trustees whose sole responsibility was keeping a watchful eye on the multitudes of demonic cults that had eternally waged an underworld war against the light and all that is righteous.

  The trip from England to the United States had taken its toll on the weary keeper. The teleportation spell was so much easier when he was a much younger lad and in his prime.

  That was all well and good before the end came. The Keepers of the Eternal Flame swore to protect mankind from the rise of the demons and the undead. They had all the answers and prattled on about a plan of action for when the apocalypse came. Their plan failed, and the future of man was bleak. As bleak and dark as Elton’s new, less than acceptable, accommodations.

  The moans grew louder, and the failure of the keepers was more apparent than ever. When the virus was released, and the dead began to rise, and civilization started to crumble, Elton followed the protocol set by the High Keepers Council and went to the secret rallying point alone.

  The others had died and become part of the army of undead or panicked and fled to save their own skins, leaving this world to fall into the hands of evil. Their cowardice turned Elton’s stomach. He was the one they called useless and frivolous. Damn fools, he fumed.

  That nonsense didn’t matter anymore. The power of the church, the evil of man, and the rise of Hell on Earth, nothing mattered at all. The only thing Elton Habersham knew now was his world of comfort and excess were history.

  He ran a shaky hand through his shaggy, gray-streaked hair and gave it a tussle. He chuckled to himself as he recalled how his students at the university said he looked like Albert Einstein because of his crazy hair.

  “A fine lot of good all those hours spent in the lecture hall do us now, huh, Mr. Einstein.” He grumbled and grabbed the bottle of bourbon from the rickety table and took a pull. How many of those howling creatures banging on the door and windows were his students? He wondered how many back then wanted to pick the old professor’s brain and now just wanted to eat it instead. The thought made him laugh aloud. The eerie laughter bounced off the dingy walls of the abandoned house.

  He took the last pull from the bottle and tossed it aside. It smashed against the wall, sending shards about the room. Over the past few weeks, he felt the strain of madness slowly envelope him. He knew that he had a greater purpose but wondered what the use was. God had forsaken the world, and the brethren he held dear had turned tail and run. Duty and apathy tore at him, and yet he knew the battle was far from over.

  The silence was broken by a booming voice.

  “Do not give up so easily, child of man,” a loud, but gentle voice echoed. Whipping his head about to see where the voice came from. Elton saw nothing. There was not a soul in the dark, damp flat.

  “Look for me and you will not see me,” the voice continued. “I’m everywhere, and you know me.”

  “Bah, too much bloody bourbon,” Elton said. “I must be pie-eyed!”

  “No, Keeper, you are well. I come to you because you are the last of your kind. All the keepers are dead or have joined the darkness and now walk among them, the enemy,” the calm voice
finished.

  This time, Elton realized the voice was in his mind. Inaudible to the surrounding area.

  “Ah ha! I knew it!” Elton threw up a pointed finger and smiled ear to ear.

  “Those cowards! I knew they would bugger off,” Elton proclaimed proudly, wishing now he had another bottle to celebrate his moral victory. He shook his head and looked about for the source of his information.

  “As you have been told, I’m all around and even in you, Keeper,” the voice spoke again, this time sounding almost annoyed.

  “So why do you come to me now?” Elton slumped back down onto the dirty mattress. His victory was short-lived as the heaviness of the moment took hold of him.

  “Oh, your faith wavers too easily. Have you forgotten the Eternal Flame, good keeper?" The voice reverberated between Elton’s aching ears.

  “The child must be dead or shuffling about down some piss poor street, gnawing on some poor fellow’s fibula. Otherwise, why are those walking eating machines clamoring at the window?” Elton spoke louder and the volume seemed to draw more attention from the ravished zombies that still pounded their rotting fists on the boarded-up windows.

  “No. The children live and are the only things that stand between saving your world and leaving it for the demon prince and his undead minions to reign.” The voice inside Elton’s head changed. It’s once gentle, calming tone gone now replaced with a strong, commanding one. It was more than apparent to Elton that urgency was now paramount.

  “What am I to do?” Elton stood once again and searched for a target to focus his words upon.

  “You must go to the child and bring it to safety,” the voice demanded.

  “Where is this child you speak of?” Elton asked. Time was of the essence, and his purpose was temporarily renewed.

  The cries of the undead grew exponentially, and the abandoned building began to shake. Elton looked about nervously and awaited the answer with baited breath.