Offspring

by Liam Jackson

  "Hey, check out it out!" exclaimed Mark.

  He allowed the station wagon to coast to a stop, the headlights focused on a rusted, weather-beaten metal sign situated just off the shoulder of the road.

  cannaugh sanatorium est. —2.5 miles

  "I'll be damned. What are the chances that we stumbled across the right road by accident?" asked Michael.

  "Slim and none," replied Sam. "It's no accident. Keep moving, Mark."

  "Yes, sir, boss." Mark eased off the brake and allowed the car to idle back onto the road. Michael grabbed his partially thawed pants and tugged them on beneath the army blanket.

  "Mark, old buddy, I think maybe we outta get dressed for company."

  Fifteen minutes later, they rolled onto the long deserted grounds of Cannaugh Sanatorium.

  The wrought-iron gate stood open, and Mark noted partially covered tire tracks in the snow. "I'm no frontier scout, but I'd say someone is waiting for us. What's the plan?"

  "I'm not sure we have a choice," offered Michael. "We don't know the place well enough to abandon the car and set out on foot. Not in this storm."

  "He's right. No choice," said Sam in a quiet voice.

  Mark looked over at the boy and saw that he held both arms tight across his stomach. Very much like he had done at the burned-out store in Knoxville. It wasn't a good sign.

  Mark eased off the brake and allowed the car to coast through the gate and up the tree-lined driveway. A short distance ahead, the Cannaugh Sanatorium came into full view.

  Made of red brick and stucco, the architecture was uninspired. It reminded Mark of a picture he had once seen of a Puritan prison in 1700s Boston. Ten stories high and a city block in length, the building was an imposing sight.

  Giant oaks and pecan trees surrounded the building on three sides, but even a city boy like Mark knew there was something wrong with the grove. The trees weren't merely hibernating. They were sick and dying, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with the season or abnormal weather.

  However, it wasn't the physical characteristics of the building or the grounds that most bothered Mark. There was something unseen at work, here. Unseen, but nevertheless very, very real. An aura of filth and corruption that hovered about the entire property.

  Dear God, thought Mark. This is no hospital. Not anymore. It's an abomination. What—is—this place?

  Mark followed the broad circular driveway that led to the front doors of the building. To his right, a lone car sat in the back row of the parking lot. It was buried beneath at least two-days accumulation of ice and snow.

  "Stop the car!"

  Surprised by Sam's unexpected order, Mark slammed on the brakes and sent the station wagon into a lazy spin across the ice-glazed asphalt. Sam opened the door and staggered out of the car. He dropped to his knees on the ground, arms folded across his stomach. Michael and Mark got out of the car and moved to help him, but Sam waved them back. For a long moment, he sat motionless with eyes closed and senses open, oblivious to the biting wind and pelting sleet.

  "They're all around us. Everywhere. Can't... breathe."

  Michael, his face drawn and pale, took a step toward Sam, but Mark caught the big man by the arm. "Wait. This happens every time he encounters a new Enemy. His head should clear after a few seconds. Until then, just give him some space." God, I hope I'm right. Never seen the kid this messed up before.

  Michael seemed unsure, but nodded and took a step back. He and Mark watched helplessly as Sam struggled to acclimate himself to the tainted environment.

  After several seconds, Sam struggled to his feet, and leaned heavily against the side of the car. His pallid skin was drenched in perspiration and he sucked in fresh air through gritted teeth.

  Mark reached out to steady the boy when a large black shadow darted in and out of the headlight beams. Holding the .45 in a two-handed grip, he scanned the deep shadows along the walls of the sanatorium. A second later, Michael was at his side, gun drawn.

  "Did you see it?" whispered Mark.

  "I saw... something," answered Michael. "At least. I think I saw something. I mean, nothing can move that fast. Can it?"

  "There!" called out Mark as he swung the barrel of the handgun in an arc along the edge of the building. It was a futile gesture as the shape within the shadow was long gone. "Fuck me, but I guess they can move that fast."

  "Yeah," said Sam from behind them. "Some of them can. I—I don't know how I know that, but I do."

  "Maybe not," said Michael, "but they can sure as hell make me piss on myself. So what now?" Mark climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine.

  A single gunshot fractured the night. A supersonic projectile sizzled past Sam's head and shattered the side glass of the station wagon. Before Sam could react, Michael was at his side. The muscular cop pulled him to his feet, and carried him under one arm to a spot behind the front end of the station wagon. Two more bullets ripped through the radiator and into the engine block. The station wagon chugged and sputtered before finally dying in a spewed cloud of hot radiator coolant.

  From behind the car, Michael called out, "Don't shoot! I'm a cop!"

  A shrill voice called out from somewhere to the right of the car. "You show me your badge and I'll show you mine, ass-wipe!" Another shot rang out and a bullet punched a hole through the right rear passenger window, and exited in a spray of glass from the left. A hollow, maniacal laugh echoed across the shadowy grounds.

  "Shit, I'm hit!" yelled Mark from inside the wagon. "Bl—bleeding."

  The front driver's side door creaked opened and Mark slid out onto the frozen pavement. He was unconscious before he hit the ice. Gun in hand, Michael crawled out of the car and onto the street beside Mark. He checked for a pulse. The heartbeat was so faint he nearly missed it. Pink, frothy blood bubbled from Mark's lips.

  Michael grimaced at the sight. Oh, man... one punctured lung, maybe two.

  Mark's coat was saturated with blood from the chest down. Michael opened the coat and blanched. The bullet's entry point was difficult to find. The exit wound wasn't.

  "Oh, Christ... oh, Christ." Michael suddenly jumped back into the station wagon, and came back seconds later with Sam's duffel bag. He dumped the contents out onto the ground and dug through the clutter until he found one of Sam's spare shirts. He folded the shirt into a tight square, then pressed it over the gaping hole in Mark's left ribcage. He then took Mark's hand and laid it over the makeshift bandage.

  "I'm sorry, man. I'm so sorry. But even if we were standing in the middle of Emergency Central instead of pinned down out here in the snow, you wouldn't have a chance. At least one lung is jelly. Maybe both. I... I'm sorry." Michael scrambled back to a kneeling position beside Sam and turned his attention to the shooter.

  Another bullet took out a portion of the windshield, followed by more wild, hysterical laughter. This time, Michael saw the muzzle flash.

  "Jesus! He's hiding in that clump of trees near the main gate. Must be seventy, eighty yards away! No way I can hit the guy from here with a handgun!"

  "It's him."

  Michael turned to Sam. The boy sat with his eyes closed. He's using the trick again.

  Softly, Sam repeated, "It's him."

  "Who, Sam? Who's out there?"

  Sam chuckled. "Oh, there's lots of 'em out there. There's a whole army out there. But the one who burned down the store, the one who tried to hurt Charlie... he's the one shooting at us."

  Who's Charlie? wondered Michael.

  Petey Scanlon was having the time of his life. Laughing like a kid on Christmas morning, he ejected the spent shells from the .357 and quickly reloaded. Then, carefully sighting along the four-inch barrel, he fired another round into the disabled station wagon.

  Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, you little redheaded boy-bitch! Like shooting fuckin' fish in a barrel, he thought gleefully. Distance and darkness were insignificant factors to Petey. The Taint coursed through his veins like living fire, providing him with supernatur
al senses and abilities that he had never believed possible.

  "I'm a god!" Petey fired five rounds in quick succession, and reloaded again.

  "Okay, sport, this has gone on long enough!" Petey whirled about, the gun raised chest-high and the hammer cocked. Some five yards away, Horace leaned against the trunk of a massive oak. Petey stared incredulously at the old black man.

  "You... you can't be here! You don't belong here!" stammered Petey.

  "Sorry, sport, but I can't allow you to do this. Too much rides on those people. You have one last chance for redemption, Peter Scanlon. It's not too late to turn back."

  A growl formed deep in Petey's throat, then spilled out in rage. Centering the gun's front sight on the old man's chest, Petey pulled the trigger.

  Horace shook his head and sighed. "Perhaps it is too late, after all."

  Petey realized the gun was useless, but he had other weapons, other gifts, at his disposal. Flinging the gun aside, he coughed up a thick wad of acidic phlegm.

  Horace had been caught unaware once before and learned a painful lesson in the process. He anticipated the tactic this time. With a casual wave of his hand, he sent the smoking ball of phlegm away from his face and onto a nearby tree, where it instantly melted the thin sheen of ice and blistered the bark.

  Moving too fast for the eye to follow, Horace was suddenly chest to chest with the corrupt ex-deputy. He seized the man's head between powerful hands and lifted him from the ground.

  Petey struggled desperately to pry the old man's hands from his head, but Horace was far too strong. The old man's fingers grew warm, then uncomfortably hot. Petey thrashed violently, driving his knees into Horace's chest, yet the old man ignored the blows as a mountain might ignore a summer breeze. Within seconds, Horace's hands transformed into glowing pincers filled with Power, searing through hair, scalp, and skull. Smoke poured from Petey's mouth, and his eyes boiled and ran from blistered sockets.

  Horace released his hold on the smoldering husk and watched it crumble to ash as it struck the ground. Petey Scanlon was gone.

  "A pity, sport. It didn't have to end this way. Redemption was ever only a prayer away."

  Sam stood up and stared into the deep shadows of the grove. Seeing this, Michael screamed out and scrambled across shards of gleaming glass to the boy's side.

  "What the hell are you doing? Get down!" He tried to pull the boy back onto the ground, but Sam pushed him away with surprising strength.

  "He's gone. The guy with the gun is gone."

  Michael stared at the boy, then looked over his shoulder toward the copse of trees. It's true! he realized. Michael didn't know how he knew, but he knew all the same. The shooter was gone. Not just he's hiding or he ran away. He was simply gone.

  "How... how did you know? What happened to him, Sam? Tell me what happened."

  Sam raised his arm and pointed toward the trees. "Horace. He happened."

  Horace? Startled, Michael spun around and raised his gun. He planted the front sight on the thin figure of a man emerging from the grove.

  It does look like the old janitor, but... damn, it's him! Horace! Michael lowered the handgun.

  Sam watched grinning, as the old man stepped out onto the frozen asphalt and moved toward them. When the old man was still some yards away, Sam broke into a run and threw his arms around his old benefactor.

  Bewildered, Michael stared, then nodded when the old man gave him a short wave.

  "Man, am I glad to see you!" Sam said, tears streaming down both cheeks.

  Horace returned the hug, then pushed Sam back a step. "I think one of your friends may need some help."

  Sam gave him a questioning look, then remembered. "Mark! He's hurt bad."

  Horace nodded. "Take me to him, son."

  Sam took Horace by the hand and led him around the station wagon to the place where Mark laid. The ice and snow around his lifeless form was a dark crimson. Horace knelt down and placed his hands on either side of Mark's head. After a moment, Horace looked up at Sam, then to Michael. "He's very near the threshold, but I think I can help. But you two have something to do first."

  "What do you mean 'first,'" demanded Michael. "You've got to help him now, if you can! He—he saved my life, for God's sake!"

  The country speech and easygoing demeanor disappeared in an instant. Horace's eyes were still full of empathy and compassion, but his voice carried the force of one accustomed to obedience.

  "Enough, Michael! Listen to what I have to say, else your friend won't thank me for bringing him back into this world. Mark's task has been completed, and now, it falls to you and Sam. Dozens have died attempting to reach this place. People you've never met made the ultimate sacrifice to see you safely here. People whom the world could ill-afford to lose."

  In a softer tone tinged with great sadness, Horace said, "The universe is in a state of upheaval, and the Veil cries out not only for itself, but for other, no less important tasks. These tasks require great deeds and selfless sacrifices. Would you waste precious time in argument now, and diminish the efforts of so many others?"

  Michael looked at Sam and the two locked eyes for a second time. Death. That's all I ever see when T look at him. Why drag a kid like Sam into something like this?

  Michael was the first to break the contact.

  Turning to Horace he said, "I'm listening."

  Horace nodded and smiled. "The building before you isn't the source of your distress. In fact, it was once consecrated ground. The Veil is deep within the earth.

  "There's an old well house behind the main compound. It lies out on the northern edge of the property. Before the corruption, most people could walk within ten feet of the building and never notice. You and Sam won't have any problems finding it."

  Mike laughed nervously and said, "Why is it I'm not so sure that's a good thing?"

  Horace smiled, but Sam thought he noticed a hint of sadness in the expression.

  Horace continued, "Inside the building, you'll find a stairway that leads down to a long, narrow tunnel. It's part of an old coal shaft, and well pipes run from the pump house, through the shaft, and down into an aquifer that supplies this area with water. Once you're in the shaft, Sam will lead you to the Veil."

  Sam grimaced. "I've been hearing that word for months, now. Just exactly what is this Veil and what are we supposed to do with it?" asked Sam.

  Horace ignored the question for a moment, placing his hands once more on Mark's face. His lips moved silently for several seconds. Michael watched passively, chewing his bottom lip. He knew that Mark was dead. Nothing short of God Almighty could change that.

  Horace pulled away the makeshift bandage and inspected the hole in Mark's side. He gently laid his hand over the wound, then looked at Sam.

  "The Veil is a kind of corridor that spans and connects all the planes of existence. It bridges all Time and Space, leading to everywhere, anywhere, and any time."

  "The Eye of God," Sam said in a small voice.

  Horace smiled, a pleased expression in his eyes. "Yes, the Eye of God. Very soon now, the Enemy will be able to pass through the Veil and enter this plane at will. I can't begin to tell you what this means to your world, Sam. If the Veil isn't closed, there will be nothing left of this universe in a very short time. In fact, the damage may already be too great. So many have already passed through. So many.

  "In ages past, a special bond existed between the Veils and the Offspring. Those with the Blood served as caretakers, gatekeepers you might say. Only one with the Blood may open or close a Veil."

  "What blood, Horace? What are you talking about?" Mike asked impatiently. "I've got one nerve left, old man, and you're standing on the son of a bitch, so start making sense!"

  Horace stared intently at Michael, and Sam had the feeling that the old man was trying to make up his mind about something. Something extremely important. After a moment, Horace sighed, ducked his head and nodded. Then, looking directly at Michael, Horace recited, " 'There were gi
ants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men, which were of old, men of renown.'"

  Sam placed a hand on Michael's shoulder. "That's us, Michael, you and me... and Mark. There's more of us, too. Not many, and we're scattered all over the place. I guess it sounds pretty crazy, huh? But that's us."

  Horace nodded solemnly. "The offspring of Divinity and Divine Creation, children bearing the blood of angelic and human parentage. There's no time for more detailed explanations, and I'm not sure you're ready for the rest anyway. However, there comes a time when you have to search your heart and accept things unseen. Faith. I'm asking that you have faith."

  Michael hesitated for a moment, his face a wooden mask. Finally, he said, "I'm not saying I believe any of this, but... okay, how do we do we shut down this Veil? I'm assuming it's not as easy as it sounds."

  Horace nodded and said, "You'll know what to do when the time is right, Michael."

  Sam reached out and took Michael by the hand. "I... I don't think the rules allow him to tell us everything. I think we're supposed to do this on our own. C'mon, Michael, we need to get moving."

  Horace gave Sam a wan smile and lapsed momentarily into his old country speech. "Ya always wuz a good boy, Lucky Sam." He punctuated the sentence with an exaggerated wink.

  Michael wasn't ready to accept such a vague explanation. Incredulous, Michael exclaimed, "Rules?" Rules? "Fuck the rules! Make sense for a change!" said Michael.

  Horace glared at Michael through eyes that suddenly blazed with ice-blue fire. "I never speak lightly of the Law. Never! The Law forms an intricate, infinite web that binds together all of Creation. It is not for us to question the Law, or deliberately circumvent the order of the Multiverse."

  After an uneasy moment, Horace's demeanor softened. "Faith, Michael. It is the most powerful gift ever given to Man. There are hundreds of Offspring spread across the planet. Some have awakened to the Call, while others have not. Of those that heard, only a handful answered. Either the Call failed to move them, or perhaps their bloodline is too diluted. Of those that answered, many have died during the journey. Others still struggle against all odds to reach this place, unaware that you've arrived. They won't make it in time for this task, but if we're very, very fortunate, there'll be other tasks after tonight, and the remaining Offspring will still have work to do.