Run the Day

by Davis, Matthew C.

  Flesh-Thing.

  "Dear god what happened to it?" Swift said.

  Its head wobbled around unsteadily on its neck, and where its eyes used to be were now two burned out holes that still had wisps of smoke curling out of them. Flesh-Thing's mouth was opened inhumanly wide in a soundless scream as it continued to drag itself closer to us. It was pathetic, really. And infuriating. Whoever got here before us ruined any chance we had of finding the damn Libro Nihil.

  "Should just put the damn thing out of its misery," I said and stormed over to where Flesh-Thing was making its way across the dirt, like a pale and lumpy worm.

  When I got closer, I began to notice a number of wounds on its body, angry burns scorched across its skin that looked like something had tried to burn its way out. I was only a few feet away when it turned its blind head straight at me and made a noise that started as a choking rasp before escalating into a tea-kettle scream that bounced around the tunnel walls.

  "God-Spear!"

  I reeled back and almost collapsed when my wonky hip tried to give in. I caught myself, and looked to see Flesh-Thing scrabbling across the dirt and trying to dig itself into the stone of the wall. It was terrified. Hack locked his eyes on it, framing it against the wall in blue light, and Swift went forward with a disgusted look on his face to make a grab at it.

  "The God-Spear rises; it seeks the heart of the Sleeper! The Neverborn dethroned!" Flesh-Thing continued to scream even when Swift managed to wrestle it into a chokehold.

  "What does a guy have to do for a straight answer around here?" Anger and frustration combined to lend me a kind of bravery, and I hauled off and punched Flesh-Thing square in its disfigured face.

  It went limp, deflated and sagged in Swift's arms. I know I didn't hit it that hard; it must have been in even worse shape than I thought. Then it lifted its head and turned two empty, black pits on me.

  "See," Flesh-Thing said in a dry whisper.

  The word hit like a cinder block to the face and reality caved in on itself. Flesh-Thing's eyes and the wounds covering its body began to smolder and smoke and Swift dropped it to the ground where it curled in on itself and began to blacken. I hardly noticed the charnel stink that rose up from it; I was too busy trying to hold the bursting pieces of my skull together as that word exploded inside of it. Memories that weren't mine flashed behind my eyes, strobing one after the other and burning into my brain like shadows burned onto walls after a nuclear explosion.

  I was in Flesh-Thing's head.

  No, it was in mine. It had a name once, a real name, so long ago that the world had forgotten it even existed. Knows-Secrets. That was it...That was his name. He was ancient, beyond ancient, thousands and thousands of years an immeasurable weight. The things he knew, the things that were whirling around my mind, it would've been easy to get lost and disappear in them. He was the bearer of a curse, one that he put upon himself as…penance?

  I saw images of a large group of people, familiar. Friends and family, my tribe. I'd led them to the valley that was paradise, following the Sleeper's whispers. I saw those same people, their bodies now broken and twisted and flayed, stacked like wood. Myself, I mean Knows-Secrets, standing at the center of the massacre laughing, screaming, crying. He created a terrible curse that tied his life force to the Sleeper itself to grant him a twisted kind of immortality, to give him the time to have his revenge. It was the curse that twisted his mind and body and stole away his magic. All his will and power went to controlling the curse, even tenuously.

  The scenes zoomed forward like an insane time-lapsed video, years turned to decades turned to centuries and long millennia. Sights, thoughts, and feelings kept coming, cramming into my head.

  And then it stopped.

  I was looking at a scene that was oddly familiar; it finally dawned on me I was looking at Abel Grannok's farm. It was night, and Grannok was outside speaking with Knows-Secrets.

  "You stole Devlin's book? He'll skin you alive," Grannok said in a hushed voice.

  "Not if you use it. Become more powerful than Devlin, destroy him. He took away your family's land, you could take it back." Knows-Secrets passed a small, cloth-wrapped bundle over to Grannok.

  Grannok held the little package, running his hands over it. He looked like a starving man who'd just been handed a free pass to a buffet. He looked about nervously, as if someone were watching them, and then turned back to Knows-Secrets with grim determination on his face.

  "I'll do it."

  Time shot forward again and I was in the middle of an underground cavern. Light came from patches of mold and fungus that clung to the walls and cast a weak, sickly green glow. In my hands, Knows-Secrets' hands, was a tiny book. It was about the size of a pocket bible and had a simple, tattered, black leather cover. The Libro Nihil, so much power inside such a little thing. And then the whole world turned into pain. Burning, searing, relentless heat slammed into me and stars flared before my eyes. It happened again, and again, and again. Screaming, Knows-Secrets was screaming. We were screaming. The pain stretched on forever, and through it rose a blurry face.

  "Don't worry, it'll stop hurting soon. I'll be taking the book now," the face said. It was becoming clearer, I started to make out features, a feeling of absolute dread taking hold of me when it spoke again and I recognized it, "I've been waiting a long, long time for this."

  And then Hack was standing over me and shaking me like a rag doll. He was yelling my name over and over, and he looked scared. Someone was screaming. I was screaming, and must have been for a while because my throat felt like I'd just got done gargling sand. I was lying on the ground; I could still feel the memory of the vicious beating Knows-Secrets had been handed as if it had been done to me. The attacker's face, his voice, solidified in my mind and I felt like screaming all over again.

  "Damn it Tommy, snap out of it," Hack said loudly and hauled a hand back, about to slap me.

  "Stop, wait, I'm…its okay. I'm okay." I feebly tried to push him away but just didn't have the strength for it, so I let him haul me up to my feet. The whole world spun around, and memories that weren't mine bounced around inside my head. It took a while for them to recede into a haze of static and background noise.

  "What was that all about?" Swift asked.

  He was still standing next to the charred remains of the creature formerly known as Flesh-Thing, and before that Knows-Secrets. It wasn't even recognizable as anything remotely human anymore; it had been consumed by a fire that burned it from the inside out.

  "Answers. Lots and lots of answers. Finally. Knows…Flesh-Thing was never the enemy. He spent his entire miserable life trying to find a way to destroy the Sleeper, and he found it when he got the book. Devlin's book," I said.

  Swift and Hack traded looks of shock and disbelief.

  "Yeah well that's not nearly the most ridiculous or freakishly terrifying part. I know who took the book," I said. I'd been trying to resolve it, somehow, but there was no way around it.

  It was enough to make me want to break down into a full-blown panic attack.

  "Well damn it boy, who the hell is it? Who has the book?" Hack said.

  "My great-grandfather," I almost choked on the words and they left a taste of bile in my mouth, "Henry."

  Chapter Twelve

  "That's insane, not to mention impossible. Henry's been dead for…for a damn long time," Hack said, scowling.

  "Shocking news, I wasn't aware," I snapped.

  My brain was still refusing to process what I had seen in Flesh-Thing's memories.

  "You're completely sure that's what you saw?" Swift spoke to me slowly, like he was talking someone away from a ledge.

  I glared at him. If I didn't already know it would be like hitting a brick wall bare-handed, I would've punched him. It wouldn't help anything, but it might make me feel better. I looked over at the blackened husk of Flesh-Thing again and for just a moment felt a twinge of sympathy for the creature. Thousands of years it spent trying to
make up for a terrible, terrible mistake all for nothing. Thousands of years of existence, only to have it abruptly ended in a moment of blazing agony.

  "We have to move. Even if what I saw was just some Other bastard, no offense, wearing my great-grandfather's face, they have the book and I'm pretty sure they know how to use it." I started making my way out of the tunnel when a sudden random thought slammed into my grey matter. I spun and looked at Hack, "God-Spear."

  "Say what?"

  "God-Spear. Flesh-Thing kept saying it."

  "Along with a lot of other madness, if I remember right."

  "But the God-Spear, he was terrified of it. I think…don't quote me on this but, I think he was talking about Henry, or Henry's doppelganger." My brain was moving a hundred miles a minute. Things were trying to click together. "When I saw it speaking to Grannok, it said the God-Spear was coming and the ritual had to be done. That was right before you and Henry showed up. Just now it was screaming about the God-Spear, right after it got the living hell beaten out of it."

  "That makes a kind of sense," Swift said from somewhere back down the tunnel, "But if your great-grandfather is the God-Spear, what's a Neverborn?"

  "A what now?"

  "Neverborn. Flesh-Thing said something about a Neverborn."

  "Ah. Yes, Neverborn," I nodded sagely, "I have no clue."

  Son of a bitch.

  Figure one thing out, the world goes and sees how many other things it can throw at you to try and ruin your day. One thing was for certain, I was going to have to break out old Henry's journals. He was a prolific observer of the Others; he had compiled multiple volumes on all the different kinds he had encountered over his illustrious career. And, the more I thought about it, the more Neverborn stuck out in my mind. I'd seen it somewhere before.

  "Can we do all this ruminating somewhere that ain't a stinking sewer?" Hack said.

  That punched me out of my reverie and I nodded, and continued walking out of the tunnel. No time to follow our tracks back to where Uncle Satan's little helpers showed us in, I went for the first shaft of light beaming down from above. It was only a short walk from the junction room where the sewage whirlpool roared, and I grabbed onto the rungs and began to climb. At the top was a good old fashioned manhole cover, thick and heavy and unmoving. I knew that because I didn't notice it until I rammed my head straight into it because I was too lost in my thoughts.

  A string of curses shot out of my mouth after I'd added another lump to my already abused skull. Shafts of light were beaming down from the ventilation holes in the manhole cover, and I held tightly to the rungs with one hand and pressed my other up to the cover. It didn't budge. Not even a little bit.

  "Need some help?" Swift called from below.

  "Nope. I got this."

  Despite my body's aches and pains, I figured it would do me some good to flex my magical muscles. I left my hand on the manhole cover, felt the cold metal of it. Even without taking time to prepare something, it shouldn't be much of a thing to get the cover out of my way. Magic, at its core, is dependent on two things, after all: willpower and imagination. A basic understanding of it as a fundamental force, tools, and preparation are big helps, but in the end it's all a matter of how much of your will you can throw at reality, and how far you want to bend it.

  The manhole cover, for example, was a circular hunk of solid metal that probably weighed close to sixty or seventy pounds. Even on a good day, when I wasn't already beaten to shit, I'd have some trouble getting it to budge. Exercise and I have never seen eye to eye. The way it stood, I could pound my head against the manhole cover all day and only get a concussion for my troubles. But, if I were to be a clever mage with an understanding of both magic and matter, well, that would change everything.

  I kept my hand pressed flat on the manhole cover and began gathering my will, focusing on the currents of energy that underlies all creation, the universal force that magic taps into, and the spark of that force inside myself. I thought of the weight of the cover, the density of the metal, and I imagined it being light as a feather. I sent out my will into the world, gave the cover a shove, and it blew up into the air like it had been hit with a sledgehammer. Light flooded the little hole and I could see the sky again.

  Glorious success. Magic wasn't something that anyone who could use it should ever rely on, let it become a crutch, but I'll be damned if it wasn't useful and cool as hell. I mean, it wasn't hurling lightning or turning chalk into comets or anything, but whatever.

  "Way to go, boy. Now can you get your ass out of my face?" Hack grumbled.

  "Yeah I'm going, hold your ancient horses."

  I hauled myself up out of the hole and took a look around while Hack and Swift came up.

  We were not in a good place.

  It was a narrow section of road, with trailers and rundown houses lining either side, little buildings that looked like decades had passed since they'd last seen any upkeep or a fresh coat of paint. They made my house look like a damn mansion. Somewhere nearby a stereo was thudding with a ridiculous amount of bass, and I could see here and there low-riders with sparkling paintjobs and rims that probably cost more than most peoples' monthly mortgages.

  I turned to tell Hack and Swift to hurry it the hell up when a door nearby banged open, and a flood of footsteps came out of a house across from where I stood. I hesitated to look, but when I did I saw around a dozen young Latino men were crowding out onto the street, they didn't look like the neighborly types. They all wore variations on the same outfit - low-slung baggy pants, and tops all in different shades of red. And each and every one of them came out armed, some with bats, pipes, or knives, others with shiny pistols.

  Son of a bitch, we'd come out in the Gardens.

  While the majority of places south of the freeway were nowhere you wanted to be unless you absolutely had to, the tiny neighborhood collectively referred to as the Gardens was a god damned no-man's land; fundamentally a warzone, a hotbed of gang activity constantly in flux between the myriad rival tribes vying for control of it. The Hanford authorities washed their hands of it years ago, forsaking it to gang control and refusing to enter its limits unless a particularly bad conflict spilled out into surrounding areas.

  Not the kind of place you wanted to pop in on.

  "What the hell is this? You must be lost, gringo," the guy who was apparently their leader said. He had a pencil-thin moustache and wore a bright red bandana around his head, and there was an uncomfortably large hand cannon sticking out of the waist of his jeans.

  "Way to go Tommy. You landed us right in the middle of the damn ghetto," Hack said as he came up behind me.

  "What the fuck's a matter with that puto's eyes?" The leader said.

  "He has a condition." I clutched at the strap of my bag. "And we were just on our way to the doctor, so if you gentlemen will excuse us, we'll just find our way out of here."

  The gangsters broke into a chorus of laughter.

  "Oh, no man, no. You ain't going anywhere."

  The leader stepped forward, hand on the handle of his gun, stopping a few feet in front of me. Any trace of laughter or mirth was gone from his face, he was giving me what I believe is referred to as a 'mad-dog' look. That close, I could see the he was young, probably hardly in his twenties.

  "You can't leave till you pay the toll, man. Or we beat it out of you. Your choice, puto." He said.

  There was that word again.

  I think that just about confirmed it wasn't a compliment, considering the way he said it and the way Rosa had said it earlier. I don't think I liked that. Apparently Swift didn't either because before I could even respond he shot like a blur in front of me, threw the young gang-banger into a vicious choke-hold and had the guy's gun out and pressed up against his temple. It got the reaction you'd pretty much expect it to. The street erupted into a lot of yelling and brandishing of weapons.

  "Swift! What the hell man?" I hollered.

  "Back up, and we'll get out of here and no
one gets hurt." Swift was slowly backing away from the gangsters and taking the leader with him. Hack apparently approved of this plan, if the grin splitting his face was any indication.

  I have the best friends.

  From up the road came the source of the bass that had been throbbing in the background, now so loud it was vibrating through the soles of my shoes. It was coming from an old lowered Cadillac that hopped and bounced to the beat. It sped down the road and screeched to a halt within spitting distance from where our little altercation was taking place. And Rosa jumped out of the car.

  Oh for the love of…

  The guy Swift was holding broke into a rapid fire shouting in Spanish. I couldn't make out much of it, most the Spanish I know comes from frequenting the taco trucks around town, but I did keep catching the word 'madre.' Mother? I think that just about confirmed my recent suspicions of the day that some higher power got its jollies by screwing with my life. Rosa stormed up and looked from the young bangers to my group and me; if looks could kill she'd be packing nukes.

  "Stop!" Rosa shouted, her voice cutting over the other yelling like a knife and immediately everyone stopped, just flat out froze. It was the most terrifyingly maternal command I'd ever heard.

  Swift shoved the guy away from him, but kept the gun. The young gangster ran straight to Rosa, who gave him a fierce hug and then proceeded to slap him upside the back of his head. Behind them his friends snickered, until Rosa turned her gnarly stare on them. The whole pack of them just turned tail and ran back into the house they came from.

  "Hell of a lady," Hack murmured behind me with something of a grudging respect in his voice.

  "What've I told you about trying to act gangster, Jesus? Get your scrawny ass inside," Rosa said to the young man, Jesus, apparently her son. He nodded curtly, shooting me an evil look before he shuffled back inside after his friends.