The Law of Three: A New Wasteland (The Portal Arcane Series - Book II)

by J. Thorn

  The desert became a dark blur of nothingness. The haboob blotted out the starless sky, the distant horizons and the mountain to the east. Samuel knew the force blowing across the desert was just the warm-up, the opening act. What came behind it worried him more, even though he had yet to identify the threat. He felt the danger in his bones.

  “Jack, Lindsay,” Samuel yelled over a shoulder. He could no longer see their forms inside the swirling sand.

  No reply.

  He stopped and fell to his knees. The sand blistered his eyes and fought its way into his nose and throat despite his best attempts at keeping the top of his shirt over his face. Samuel knew this was another tactic thrown at him by the reversion, another attempt at impeding his progress toward the mountain’s peak, where he might have a chance to control his own fate. Samuel stood and staggered forward, feeling his way through the silent storm like a blind man on a busy city street.

  Samuel felt the ground give way below him. He stumbled forward and felt the sand pulling him down until there was no longer solid ground below. He fell, grasping frantically at the pitch-black air around him. His hip hit the ground first, sending a flare of pain through his ribcage to his shoulder. He rolled several times before coming to a stop in an unconscious heap.

  ***

  Lindsay coughed and spat into the empty void. She raised her hand up and could not see it through the dull grey blanket of sand enveloping her. Lindsay had never experienced a sandstorm before and hoped she never would again. She listened for signs of Samuel or Jack but heard nothing. Even the violent wind thrashing the desert made only a slight hush in her ears. She groped aimlessly with both hands extended, as if looking for the light switch in an unfamiliar room.

  She fell to her knees and cried out into the silence. The sand had infiltrated everything. She felt violated, shaking her head to dispel as much grime from her hair as possible.

  “Mom,” Lindsay yelled, her cries swallowed by the sandstorm.

  She laughed at her own outburst and the fact that a grown woman was calling for her mother in a time of crisis. Her mother would not be there. Her mother was never there. Lindsay felt the ground sway and the storm subside as a distant memory came from its unmarked grave, back to haunt her like an insatiable spirit.

  ***

  “He’s nice. You’ll like him.”

  Lindsay looked down at her hands, still mystified by the nail polish decorating her fingers. She considered it a rite of womanhood, not of a girl just introduced to the bleeding.

  “He’s creepy.”

  Lindsay’s mom puffed blue-tinged tobacco smoke up into the ceiling fan, where the blades shot out carcinogens to the others in the room. She shook her head back and forth, blinking eyes caked with makeup that could not disguise the crow’s feet at their corners.

  “Women are here to serve men. The sooner you learn that, darling, the better off you’ll be. You’re a teenager now.”

  Lindsay shivered when her mother pushed a lock of hair behind her ears and slid her bra straps down a bit further off her shoulders.

  “Don’t touch me,” she whispered, keeping her voice low enough so the rest of the party wouldn’t notice their confrontation.

  “I’m your mother, Linds. I’ll do what I want with you.”

  Lindsay closed her eyes, hoping that some force could remove her from the confines of the smoky, loud living room. She stared at the beige carpeting and faux leather couch now crawling with short skirts and curious fingers. Lindsay wished to be transported from the dilapidated row house on 8th Avenue in Homestead, Pennsylvania, to one of the glamorous mansions in Beverly Hills. Lindsay imagined sitting at a luxurious pool next to Pamela Anderson, watching the teenage boys who gawked at them both.

  “Now go keep Mr. Brown company.”

  Her mother’s command pulled her from her thoughts and murdered any possibility of instant teleportation to Hollywood or beyond. Lindsay saw the man on the couch, fumbling with his bottle of Iron City. The condensation from the beer bottle dripped onto his faded “One For the Thumb” Steelers T-shirt, giving Joe Greene’s face a dark discoloration. Mr. Brown looked at Lindsay and his tongue, resembling that of a serpent, licked at the mustache on his upper lip. She hated the nicknames more than anything. It proved how unimaginative her mother could be, and why she had to hand over her daughter after she lost the ability to earn a living with her own body.

  “He looks fine with just a beer.”

  The contact of her mother’s hand on Lindsay’s cheek snapped like a wet towel. The people in the room froze while the CD player continued spewing a dance beat that had fallen out of fashion years prior. Lindsay felt the sting of embarrassment before the welt rose on her face. She dropped her head and looked at her mother from underneath her bangs.

  “Yes, Mother,” she whispered.

  “Yins can get back to the party,” her mother said while spinning in a circle from the middle of the living room. “Just a woman disciplining her child.”

  After a three-second pause, the girls went back to their plastic admiration while the men continued sizing up the flesh beneath tired undergarments. Her mother pushed Lindsay in the back toward the couch and Mr. Brown. She looked over her shoulder and glared at the woman.

  “Love you, Mommy,” Lindsay said loudly enough for Mr. Brown to take notice. He squirmed and knocked more condensation off the beer bottle.

  “I don’t need this kind of nonsense,” Mr. Brown said to Lindsay’s mother.

  The woman grabbed Lindsay by the arm and pulled her close. Lindsay could smell the cheap wine and stale cigarette smoke on her mother’s fetid breath. She saw the way time had run deep on her face and how the foundation cracked upon those same lines. Lindsay imagined Mr. Brown groping her the way he had her mother when they were in high school.

  Lindsay shook her grip and stepped away. She held her mother’s gaze for another moment before walking over and sitting on Mr. Brown’s lap. Lindsay felt the chill of his bottle on her bare thigh before he followed her to the bedroom.

  Mr. Brown set his glasses next to the empty bottle on the nightstand while Lindsay closed the door. Both items appeared lost and disoriented in Lindsay’s room full of white, pink and hope. Lindsay lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. She struggled to breathe and felt pressure on her chest until she realized it was his body causing the sensation. Lindsay felt the friction of his jeans on hers and knew what was next. It always started this way, as if the men had to convince themselves it was not their initial intention.

  She felt his hands on her breasts, squeezing the small mounds of flesh until the pain flared through her entire chest.

  “Maybe you can just show me what ya got,” he said, spewing the stench of warm beer in her face. “I won’t touch nuthin’ unless you say it’s okay.”

  A lie. Lindsay heard them before. She could almost whisper the words before they arrived.

  “What would my mom say?” she asked, following the script in her head.

  “She said it was okay. Me and your mom go way back. I’m like part of the family.”

  Lindsay winced, wondering what real family was like. “You sure she won’t be mad at me?” she asked, speaking words that were not hers.

  “No, honey. She wants us to have fun. You wanna have fun with me, dontcha?”

  Lindsay felt his hands unbutton her jeans and the cool air of the room hitting the front of her panties. She looked up at the water stains on the ceiling and bit her bottom lip. Lindsay hated those damn stains, and she planned on ripping down that ceiling someday, pulling the entire house into its own deep grave.

  “Hold on, let me help,” she said.

  Mr. Brown sat back on his legs, Lindsay on her back. He gripped his T-shirt with both hands and drew it over his head, then slid the jeans off his hips, revealing yellowed-stained briefs. Lindsay started to smile when he backhanded her across the face.

  “Your mom always liked it when we played rough. Do you like it rough, Lindsay?” he asked, sla
pping her again.

  She shivered and her face became numb. Lindsay felt his cock on her thigh as he moved it closer to her. Mr. Brown stuck two fingers underneath the edge of her panties and ripped them off. Lindsay saw the look on his face and knew she could not submit again. She could not tolerate it any longer.

  “Let me lick it, like a lollipop,” she said. Lindsay hoped Mr. Brown could not detect her insincerity.

  Without a word, Mr. Brown leaned back and stuck his throbbing manhood into the air. Lindsay sat up and put a finger to the corner of her mouth.

  “Close your eyes,” she said.

  Mr. Brown obeyed.

  Lindsay reached over and grabbed the empty bottle of Iron City from the night stand. The glass felt alive in her hand. Before she could change her mind, she brought the bottle up behind her right ear and swung it down until it shattered on Mr. Brown’s skull. He tumbled to the floor as glass covered her bed. His feet followed. Mr. Brown lay on the grimy hardwood floor.

  She felt tears emerging and willed them away. Lindsay tossed the bottle neck to the side and peered over her bed at the floor. Mr. Brown was facedown, blood trickling from his left temple. His glasses had skittered underneath her nightstand, and his twisted underwear looked like misplaced bandages.

  Banging on the bedroom door pulled Lindsay out of her shock.

  “Everything all right in there?” she heard her mother ask. “She treatin’ ya fine, Mr. Brown?”

  “We’re fine, Mum,” Lindsay said, hoping her mother couldn’t hear the panic in her voice.

  “Yins come and have a drink when yer done.”

  “We will,” Lindsay said. She heard her mother’s raucous cackle as she reentered the party in the living room.

  Mr. Brown moaned, and his legs twitched. Lindsay grabbed her jeans and pulled them over both legs, not worrying about the fact that her underwear lay torn on the floor. She grabbed a windbreaker hung on one bedpost and zipped it up in hopes it could hide the shame beneath. Mr. Brown moaned again, and this time he began to form words.

  Lindsay felt her entire life balancing on a precipice. She knew this moment could define her or end her. She was not about to surrender her spirit to the cretin on the floor or the one wearing lipstick in the living room. She unplugged the lamp on her night stand and turned it upside down. She felt the weight of the base pull the top end down and knew it would suffice. She straddled Mr. Brown until she stood directly over his head with the lamp in both hands. She hesitated, unsure how much force it would take to get her out without killing the man. After another second of deliberation, she decided it wasn’t up to her. If the man lost his life at the hands of the child he was about to rape, so be it.

  She brought the base of the lamp down hard at the place where Mr. Brown’s skull met the back of his neck. Lindsay felt the force of the blow and the sickening sound made her retch. She shoved a finger down her throat to get it over with, spewing vomit on the crumpled bedding. The man stopped moving. She dropped the lamp to the floor and then ran to her door to make sure the deadbolt was in place. Lindsay placed an ear to it and heard the party in full swing.

  She pulled a cap over her head and slid on a pair of boots before walking to the closet. Lindsay opened the door and stared at the meager belongings she would leave in the hands of her mother. She caught a glimpse of light from the top of her dresser, where her crucifix lay in a crumpled pile. Lindsay picked it up and put it over her head, thinking of her grandfather. She buried the chain beneath her jacket.

  The window sat in the opposite wall like a black eye daring her to escape. She saw the dirty socks on Mr. Brown and took a last look at her bedroom. She was angry at her mother and herself. The refuge that should have insulated her from the evils of the world had only perpetuated them. Lindsay would have burned the house to the ground in that moment if she had matches. She thought of Mr. Brown again, a sliver of empathy welling up inside that she smashed like an annoying housefly. He would never touch her again, and if she hadn’t scrambled his brains with the lamp base, he would hopefully think twice before putting his hands on another girl.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Lindsay recognized the intensity of the sound coming from the other side of her door.

  “Irons are gittin’ warm,” her mother said. “Ain’t got time to run back to the store an’at. Almost done?”

  She froze, tears welling up in her eyes. Lindsay looked at the door and then back to the window.

  “Pulling ourselves back together, Ma. Showin’ Mr. Brown my dolls.”

  The silence froze Lindsay. She waited for her mother to respond as she crept toward the window.

  “Everything okay in there?” her mother asked, dropping the volume and party atmosphere from her voice.

  Lindsay bit her bottom lip. She placed a hand on the window and unlocked the sash. Chips of old paint fell to the sill like remnants of a life she was about to abandon.

  “Fine, Mom. I’m really fine. Always have been.”

  The words came with a caustic bite, a brevity that did not leave much room for conversation.

  Silence.

  Lindsay waited, her left hand beginning to grasp the handle to slide the window up.

  “What’s going on in there, Lindsay?”

  Her mother had dispelled the party girl front and slurred speech.

  Bang.

  “Lindsay.”

  Bang. Bang.

  “Open this damn door ’fore I beat your skinny ass.”

  A moan came from Mr. Brown, and Lindsay saw his right leg shift on the floor.

  She threw the window open with both hands, the cool night air on her face bringing a shocking burst of clarity. Lindsay knew the streets of Homestead and what they could do to a girl at night, on her own. But none of that mattered in the instant she kicked the ratty screen out of the frame.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  “Fuck, Lindsay. Let me the fuck in.”

  Her mother’s rant lost its maternal concern and bolted straight for anger. She saw Mr. Brown’s head rise like a zombie from the other side of her bed, blood matting his thinning hair to a speckled skull. His hand fumbled on the floor for his glasses.

  Lindsay heard more commotion at the door and the scrape of metal on metal. It wouldn’t take long for them to pop the hinges and lift the door out of the frame, pulling the thin barrel bolt apart. She giggled, imagining Mr. Brown trying to explain his current predicament to the onrush of half-stoned child molesters blundering into the bedroom.

  She felt her chest for the crucifix, stuck her right leg into the real world, and leapt from the second-story window to the streets below without ever looking back.

  ***

  Jack stumbled through the sandstorm like a drunken sailor. He stumbled in the sand, as if trying to stay upright on the deck of a ship.

  “Lindsay.”

  No reply.

  “Samuel.”

  No reply.

  The silence made the storm frightening, and Jack wanted desperately to come back to reality. He tripped on his own feet and collapsed into the sand, awakening the visions.

  “You are fond of her.”

  Jack blinked and turned toward the voice. Deva sat beneath a tree devoid of leaves. The bare branches twisted into the sky like the gnarled fingers of a shaman. A sweeping plain raced to the horizon, more emptiness than Jack could handle.

  “What do you want from me?” Jack asked.

  Deva stood and decided to give Jack the visual representation he would need.

  “Who are you?” Jack asked, as the man came toward him.

  The man’s white hair was tangled with a long, white beard. His dark eyes sat deep in a weathered face that looked more like granite than flesh. A flowing, grey cape swirled about him, his staff keeping it fastened to the earth. Deva smiled, and Jack felt the chill of that grin run up his spine.

  “I am your host in this locality.”

  “I’m with Samuel and Lindsay.”

  Deva nodded. “True. B
ut you know they both will sacrifice you for their own gain.”

  “Ahimsa,” Jack said.

  Deva nodded again.

  “Why should I trust you when you don’t even exist in the real world?”

  “What is the ‘real world,’ young Jack? You really think you know what that means?”

  Deva followed his statement with a chuckle that felt as though it were coming from inside Jack’s head. He thought of Lindsay and her brilliant eyes.

  “Ah,” Deva said. “So she has worked her way into your heart.”

  Jack trembled, his forehead wrinkling and his eyebrows drawing down to a V. “Shut the fuck up,” he said.

  “You will never have her. Samuel will keep her for himself and serve you up as the sacrificial lamb.”

  Jack’s anger turned into confusion. He kicked at a tree root protruding from the ground, as if that would help his situation. “I don’t understand what you want from me.”

  “It’s simple. You allow the reversion to send the cloud and gather the group, and I will place you back in the cycle to give your soul another opportunity to fulfill its dharmic responsibility, its ahimsa.”

  Jack shuddered at the word. It felt like cold grease under his tongue. “Why?”

  “Not your concern. Keep Samuel and Lindsay from reaching the mountain and you get another chance. It’s the most promising deal I can offer.”

  Jack winced.

  “Don’t be a fool. You don’t really think she would choose you over him, do you? He’s a man, and you’re a simple boy.”

  “No deal,” Jack said. “Shove it up your ass.”

  Deva switched his cane from one hand to the other. “One of my abilities in this locality allows me to scry, to look ahead.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jack said.

  “I get glimpses of the near future, as if I were just slightly taller than others when viewing the distant horizon.”

  Jack shrugged, unsure of what Deva’s powers meant for him.

  “The girl, her eye is on him, not you. Allow me to show you.”

  Jack closed his eyes and inhaled. He scratched the side of his head before stomping a foot on the ground. “Fine. Show me whatever it is you think I need to see, and then I’ll make a decision on your offer.”