by C.G. Banks
*
The professor pulled back his hand sharply, the intake of breath causing the other to find his eyes. The survivor stood down a step, backed away from the doorway where they huddled. “But…you….How,” the professor managed, his eyes wide, unable to continue. The thing still played in his mind.
The survivor held up the hand with which he’d touched him. The professor shrank away from it like some abhorrent relic. The survivor smiled thinly and put the hand in the pocket of his overcoat. “No,” he said. “There is no real answer. As I said, Gerda had the spark but it was never a match for mine.” The old man’s eyes suddenly darkened, the irises dilating in the tenuous light.
“I was just inside the gate that morning, as I said. Standing, wavering at the Appleplatz, willing myself through one more roll call. Always one more, just one more. It was the only way to pass time so it didn’t strangle or lead me back to the darkness. And I saw. The picture came as clearly as a reflection in the mirror of my own face, and that thing I saw, this thing I’ve shown you, has walked beside me to this day.” He tried to hold the smile but it was an abomination.
“So when I hear people like you, all you Seekers of Truth, I find myself drawn back, ever backward. Once again I’m face to face with Whatever it was that came to destroy us. And I wonder…” he paused and licked his dry lips.
“I wonder where it is today.”
Two
Late Night Phone Call
