by Logan Keys
I don’t try to fight it. I’m ready to leave this place, because for what reasons should I remain? What tethers me here? Jeremy? Gone. Tommy? I will follow him even beyond the grave. I know this now. Our friendship is not bound to time and space or life and death, we’ve seen the impossible in the machine, and so we know there’s no true end. Not really.
With a deep breath, I sigh, and move my hands from the large hole punctured through my middle, and gently lay them flat upon the soil. From the dust I came, and to the dust I return.
“Liza? Can you hear me?”
I can but I do not answer. I close my eyes to the peculiar ones above me, beseeching me to try. I cannot. If this is my end, then I pray it comes swiftly, and by the warmth fanning out behind me, soaking in like rain for the roots, I believe it shall.
Another, much darker voice breaks through the dense fog like hell itself spoke. The words are eaten up by those puffs of rolling moisture, so there’s no edge to the muddled consonants and vowels spilling from Cory Prince’s vile mouth. “Embrace death all you want. It will never be that easy, not for us, Liza. We’re no longer human.”
I clench my eyes even tighter. I know Cory, my murderer, is far too self-indulgent to follow me to the grave and meet his own end. Ones like him will live forever. And so, I will have peace very soon.
“Hold on, Liza, don’t give up,” Phillip pleads unceasingly.
Cory begins to laugh. His amusement grates on what’s left of my soul. I’m slipping away, but not soon enough. “You all look so silly,” he remarks. “Liza, don’t give up!” Cory mocks Phillip in a high-pitched teasing copy. He bends down until he’s inches from me, face to face, and I’ve opened my eyes to glare into his. “Not yet,” Cory whispers, petting my hair. “Not yet.”
“Get off of her!” Phillip physically yanks Cory away, who shrugs him off with a smile.
Cory lifts his hands like he’s a god. “Rise, Liza. Rise!” And he chuckles to himself, but not without continuing to call to the heavens. “Rise!”
I glance downward. Blood is still gushing from my middle, but I feel no different. I do sit up, and Phillip’s eyes widen. Cory takes my hand, and in my surprise, I let him. He guides me to my feet though the blood still drains from the wound down my legs onto the earth. Shouldn’t I be faint? Shouldn’t I falter? But I feel strong instead.
“Will yourself to heal,” Cory says, holding each of my hands, looking deeply into my eyes.
I frown at him in disbelief and he brings his lips closer, and a kiss is planted on my cheek. “Oh, ye of little faith.” But the voice inside of my head isn’t Cory’s, it’s Tommy’s and I pull away trying to break free from the mind games.
“Will yourself to heal!” Cory commands.
Despite my fury, I do picture the insides of myself knitting together, the wound closing, the blood clotting, and the pain dissipating.
And just like that, it happens.
I survey my surroundings with new eyes. Cory had been right. We do have powers now…like demi-gods. He holds out his hand for me again. “I have something to show you.”
I don’t want to take it. Phillip glares at me when I do, but Cory leads me out of the forest. He has given me Spirit, and she rests once again behind me from shoulder to hip.
We walk to the road. “I want you to see what power your choices tonight have given us. What your sacrifice has brought.” Cory’s eyes are illuminated with possibilities.
He’d syphoned power from Spirit, I can sense it. From my killing of the man.
I turn to see where he motions. The undead groan before us, a horde of them coming this way. The moonlight and fog make them spirited shapes in the darkness, and I gasp at how many there are and reach for my blade.
Cory stops me. “No need for that.”
He sighs and closes his eyes.
The undead come closer, and closer still before they halt. I watch in amazement as they slowly move into a jagged formation. Then they become still. A hundred at least.
They’re waiting for Cory’s command.
Chapter 64
Chalberg’s Journal
I’ve stopped putting dates on these entries, as time is useless to keep hold of with something so abysmal as numbers. What is time when we at the Underground have created those who can bend it? When Simon himself can indeed move through it and halt it if need be? What is time if it is controlled by anyone willing to risk their life to that machine?
I never did go into it. I knew it would be my end and resisted the temptation of power. Only few that have been near have been able to keep from giving into the lure of such tremendous offerings. But I have studied those who did go through successfully and learned so much only to realize so little. Our hubris is that we should even begin to imagine that we are able to contain such a thing as Chronos. That the decay and erosion of power would not run rampant. And it has.
I’ve had plenty of time to think, to remember, to let guilt eat at me. This journey has been my penance. Risking life and limb to chase one subject is something well deserved for my part in the dark creation. I’ve been almost eaten by the undead more times than I can count. Bitten twice, but I know that I’m one of the immune, thankfully. Though it put me into a fever and a delirium such as I did not know was possible and I almost lost my subject. My specimen of recent interest.
I’ve done my fair share of evil things. And so, I hope to do good with my life from here forward, be on the right side of the future for once.
It had ended with so many monsters, our quest, that is, and craving for scientific discovery. While this journey of redemption has also begun with a monster as well.
This monster, however, is unlike any other. It has some purpose that I had not understood as I’d trailed it from place to place. But now that we’ve arrived here, somewhere in what was once the great Lincoln State, I’ve watched it remain with a singular focus ever since. I’ve logged its habits as closely as I dare, careful not to be detected because the beast of a thing would surely kill me if it found me out. I’ve learned its patterns and have found that it’s staying nearby to this house. This specific one.
Out back, there is a pond, and I find it soothing to write whenever the mood suits me. It is strange to see that it’s held some attachment, even though humanity has obviously fled.
I think the monster is confused by his sentimental notion as well, since it seems to be restless, but remains nevertheless.
And now, today I’ve found out why.
This must have been where the boy inside of the beast had lived.
Welcome home, Thomas Ripley Hatter.
To be Continued….
A Note from the Author
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A special thank you to everyone who worked on Lies and Legends to make it great. And to the fans of the series, you are made of tough stuff. Survivors. That’s your superpower.
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