by Sean Platt
He managed to stay off his ass, and spun to see what careless asshole had been stupid enough to brush against the devil.
A giant Paul Bunyon-looking fuckstick with a Grizzly Adams beard and a nice big black prison tat of a swastika on his forearm stood there staring at Boricio as if he had been the one to bump into him.
Grizzly blurted, “What?”
Boricio looked him up and down, trying not to laugh at an outfit straight out of racist biker central casting or a bad '90s action movie.
Torn acid wash jeans? Check.
Black leather jacket spattered with idiot patches? Check.
Red bandanna to hide his bald spot? Check.
Tattoos that proved how much he hated himself and every other race? Check. Check. Triple nipple I’ll turn you cripple, check!
Big Billy Badass was trying so hard it made Boricio giggle like a bitch.
“Whatchyou laughing at, boy?”
“Nothin’ honey, you just keep rockin’ that look.”
Grizzly stared at Boricio, open mouthed. Boricio wanted to play more, but still had to squirt.
Boricio turned from Grizzly’s stare, giggling on his way to the bathroom and hoping that big didn’t mean dumb, and that Grizzly would be smart enough not to bother a man on his way to point Percy at the porcelain.
There was no way he would’ve looked back, even if he heard the bear charging, but Boricio didn’t need to worry. Grizzly was more interested in the hot piece of ass waiting for him to finish — a bleach blonde with an equal number of “I hate my daddy” tattoos, but still young enough that the miles of self-loathing, drug abuse, and whoring had yet to turn her pussy into a pile of rancid lunch meat.
At the door, he turned back to see what he knew he would see — the blonde eyeballing Boricio like she wanted him belly to belly and burying a bone.
Boricio winked, then went into the bathroom. He emptied his eel, then stepped back out and threw his arms around the bar. A song by that cunt Kelly Clarkson came on the jukebox, clearly pissed of a few of the patrons — the song was a few years old, but brand new by shithole bar standards, and not Garth Vader or George Fucking Straight.
As he searched the bar for a reason to stay, Boricio saw Grizzly’s blonde coming toward him.
Well, well, well. Lookee here.
The blonde looked Boricio up and down on approach, passing him with a wink and a smile on her way into the lady’s room.
Boricio followed her inside, not at all concerned about the restroom’s other occupants. Places like this — usually packed like opening day at a glory hole with meth heads, chicks fucked hard on the pain pill du jour, and drunks — women didn’t think dick about a dude doing the lumpy batter all over a bitch’s back in the stall.
Girls gotta earn their drugs.
Boricio expected a crowded house, but the shit room was empty save for the blonde.
The door swung shut behind Boricio. The blonde looked back, feigning surprise.
“What are you doing in here?”
“I think you know.” Boricio climbed her body, using his eyes to fill every hole.
“I’m with someone,” she said, smiling coyly.
“Yeah, I saw. But we both know he ain’t doin’ you like you need to get done. Am I right?” Boricio arched an eyebrow and grinned, feeling the liquor swimming inside him.
She stood by the sink and said nothing. Boricio stepped closer. Inches away, he looked down at her swollen tits, beaded with sweat, skin flushing for his touch. Her breath was rapid, and her eyes said she was as starving as him, and for the exact same thing. Hell, he could close his eyes and smell her.
Boricio put his hands on the blonde’s hips and pulled her against him.
She leaned in, kissing him hard on the lips like she had cancer and his saliva was her cure.
He wanted to fuck her into a pile right there in the filthy bathroom, make her scream his name and leave her with cum on her tongue when she went to French Grizzly.
But Baby Boricio wasn’t cooperating. It wasn’t often that he got a case of drunk dick, but he knew not to force shit when it did.
He considered taking her back to his motel and saving her for morning, but the room was maybe six shit stains better than the bathroom, and something told Boricio that the blonde would never taste better than now.
The blonde, realizing Boricio’s loss of interest, pulled away.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’ — just realized I got somewhere to be.”
She wrinkled her nose, pushed him away, and clomped out of the bathroom.
Boricio followed, pausing on the sawdust-covered floor as Grizzly passed, likely on his way to the men’s room.
He looked at his woman, then at Boricio, slowly adding up two and two in his tiny noggin. He finally got four and yelled at the blonde.
“What the fuck you doin’ in there with this pile of shit?”
“He followed me.” She pointed an accusing finger at Boricio.
Right, like you didn’t want me making cherries jubilee.
“Why the fuck you following my girl?” Grizzly shoved Boricio hard.
He fell back, then paused to size up his enemy.
Boricio was better drunk than most were sober, but that didn’t diminish how fuckered he was. Clearly this asshole, and his Neanderthal friends, could kick his dick ass six ways to Sunday. But at the same time, bitches clucked and Boricio didn’t. Weren’t no way, no how he was backing down now.
Boricio had been on the run for three weeks since The Darkness stole Rose from his soul. Three weeks of getting as far the fuck away from her as possible before this world went to hell like the other one. Three weeks of searching for Mary and Paola, three weeks of failing to find them. Three weeks of nights like this — losing himself down the twin holes of hell — liquor to poison his blood and disposable pussy to help him forget.
Three weeks without the violence Boricio needed. Three weeks without losing himself to the rampage, killing a fucker, especially one who deserved it, and making him choke to death on Boricio’s rage.
He met Grizzly’s eyes and smiled.
“Bitch was begging, said you’re nothing but hair, gut, and stub, and that even with that you only slam her a minute before stubby gets to spittin'—”
Grizzly swung, his ham-sized fist finding Boricio’s jaw before he could duck or counter.
A detonation of pain boomed through his jaw.
Boricio stumbled, would’ve fallen to the ground if he hadn’t stumbled back against a wall of tacky framed photos hanging crooked outside the bathrooms.
Blood flooded his mouth.
That fucker better not have knocked out a tooth!
Boricio felt around with his tongue, but didn’t have time to check both rows of pearly whites before the fucker was charging toward the second round.
Boricio dropped to the ground, and managed to scramble away just as Grizzly barreled straight into the wall.
Boricio bounced up, looked back at Blondie, who was staring at the two men with a look so jaded she almost seemed bored.
Every drunk in the bar paused their shows for Boricio. Like the blonde, they’d seen this shit play out a thousand times before, but nothing thrilled hill folk like a brawl.
Boricio winked at Blondie.
The giant yelled, “Come on, you fucker!”
“Your GPS now working? I’m right here. And really, is fucker the best you got? Now technically, if I’d had another minute or two with your cock cozy that’s exactly what I’d be right now, but she smelled like the pussy you get at Goodwill so I passed, and I haven’t fucked your mother since yest—”
Grizzly charged and stole Boricio’s second punch line.
Boricio saw himself sidestepping the goliath, then rushing him from behind, smacking his hands on the man’s ears before going to town. But Boricio was drunk, and Grizzly sent him hard to the floor.
He was a boulder atop Boricio. He managed a few jabs to the giant’s ribcage, bl
ows that would’ve hurt most men, if not broken some bones. But Grizzly was wearing a blue whale’s winter coat.
He grunted, reached up, grabbed Boricio’s head with both hands, and slammed it hard onto a cushion of sawdust.
Pain splintered Boricio’s skull, screaming from the lightning strike through him, white and blinding enough to rob him of everything else.
Four
Edward Keenan
Ed woke handcuffed to a bed in a cold gray cell with instantly recognizable glass doors and walls.
Black Island.
The air conditioner whistled through the ceiling and seemed to fuel the feeling that he was deep underground below tons of concrete and steel.
He looked up at the ceiling’s many holes to where he knew the cameras were hidden.
“Hey!” he yelled. “I want to speak to Director Bolton!”
The speakers, also on the ceiling, were silent.
He called out again, but still no response.
Ed wondered if he was being monitored, and what the agents had already done to Jade and his friends.
He pulled at his cuffs, but they only rattled against the metal bed frame — solid and soldered into the wall and floor.
Shit.
He sat up and looked around. There were five other cells in the large room. He didn’t think he’d ever seen this part of the facility, either the Other Earth’s version, or this one’s. He wondered if it was new, or somewhere he’d never been. There was a sliding red door with a camera above it at the end of the hall, with a touch screen beside it.
Ed stared at the door, waiting.
After what seemed like an eternity, the door slid open.
A man stepped through, alone, wearing jeans and a long navy shirt. Despite the simple denim and cotton, he looked like he’d just left his tailor’s, with everything hanging on his lean frame just so. The man’s slightly wavy brown hair was swept back from his forehead, and though he wore no glasses his face seemed almost naked without them. He seemed vaguely familiar, and Ed felt like he should know the man, but couldn’t remember ever having met him.
The man stopped in front of Ed’s door, pressed his palm against the pad on the outside. The glass door slid open, and the man entered with a smile.
“Who the fuck are you?” Ed asked.
The man’s smile didn’t even flicker.
“My name is Desmond Armstrong, and I’m here to help. Let me assure you that your friends and family are fine. They are topside, in our housing, safer than anywhere else in the world.”
Desmond Armstrong.
The name flashed in his head. Ed had never met Desmond, but he’d dreamed of him after returning to Earth.
“How do I know you?” Ed asked.
“All of us who vanished on October 15 share some collective memories. Perhaps you’ve seen me in your dreams?”
“Yes,” Ed said. “But from what I remember, things didn’t turn out so well for you.”
“I was killed. But the boy, Luca, returned in another form, like light, and brought me back.”
Ed looked the man up and down, trying to get a read on him. He wasn’t getting any vibes one way or another, save for the odd familiarity of having seen the man in his dreams.
“So why are you here?” Ed asked.
“I came back to save the world. That’s where you come in.”
“Me?” Ed held his hands out, palms up. “I’m done saving the world. I just want to rest. I don’t know how much you know, or how long you’ve been here, but the guy running this show, Bolton, wanted me to kill off all of the ten to fifteen survivors, so forgive me if I find it hard to believe that we’re sharing common goals.”
“Bolton has seen the error of his ways, we’ve had … discussions,” Desmond said with a twinkle in his eye that indicated that he’d likely dressed Bolton down.
Who the hell is this guy? Military?
“Why would Bolton listen to you? You’re just a civilian, right?”
“I have The Light inside me, the part of the aliens that wants to save us, rather than murder or absorb us. But there’s a darker force out there, gathering strength, searching for vials that contain the alien in its raw form. If The Darkness finds the vials first, then we could have a repeat of what happened on the other world happen right here. But if we find them first, we can use it to destroy The Darkness once and for all. We can stop it.”
“We? How?”
“We, those who vanished on October 15, all have a bit of The Light inside us. When Luca brought us back over, some of him came, and stayed, with us. We can use it to find the vials. We can find the people who have the last vials and convince them to hand them over.”
“And what then? What are we going to do with the vials?”
“I don’t entirely know. But I’m confident that The Light will show us the way.”
“Sorry, pal, but I’m not buying the mumbo jumbo and pseudo-religious dark and light shit.” Ed meant to rattle the man for a response.
Surprisingly, Desmond held his calm.
He kneeled to Ed’s level.
“I’m not going to bullshit you, Mr. Keenan. I don’t have all the answers. But I do know one thing. If we don’t get those vials, then you, me, and everyone we love will die at the hands of The Darkness. You and I have both seen what it did to the other Earth. You can be the grizzled cynical bastard that Bolton said you are, or you can do something to save your family.”
Ed chewed on the message, then said, “How do I know that The Darkness hasn’t already infiltrated Black Island? It got to Sullivan. Hell, how do I know you’re not infected?”
“Because we’ve got our very own sniffer, someone who can see The Light and The Darkness.”
“Who?”
“Well, I can, for one. But there’s also Paola.”
“Mary’s girl?”
“Yes, she is now The Light.”
“What do you mean is The Light?”
Desmond explained that Luca had been The Light, but was growing weaker after fighting off The Darkness and sending the other Luca to take his place on this world. He then found Paola in the hospital, in a coma. She needed saving; he needed a home.
“Now she’s helping us find the other vials. But she’s a kid and helping from here. I need someone I can trust out there, boots on the ground following up on the leads Paola’s getting from her visions.”
Ed shook his head, trying to stop his world from sounding like bad sci-fi. He wanted to call it crazy, but couldn’t dismiss a syllable. He’d seen destruction caused by The Darkness, and how it had murdered a planet.
He didn’t trust Black Island to save the world, especially when they couldn’t see an enemy in their own damned camp, but Ed felt like Desmond could be trusted. Especially if he’d managed to convince Bolton to let him head this operation.
“So, what do you need me to do?”
“What you do best,” Desmond said. “Find people and convince them to do something they might not want to do.”
“And my family, friends?”
“They can all stay here on Black Island. They’ll be safe.”
“OK,” Ed said. “I’m in.”
Five
Mary Olson
Black Island
Mary sat on the couch, watching as Paola played with Teagan’s girl, Becca. Jade sat beside the young mother, looking guarded, and not unlike a gloomy college kid with her bright-blue hair.
Mary couldn’t blame her for looking miserable. They’d been dragged here against their will, and she’d yet to see her father, Ed.
Mary wanted to say something to let Jade know things would be OK, that Desmond was there and wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her father.
Becca giggled, a deep and almost-hoarse guffaw when Paola tickled her.
Mary watched, feeling a sense of joy swell inside her. It was the most lively she’d seen Paola since she emerged from the coma after Desmond saved them and brought them to the other world before coming to Black Island
. According to Desmond, Luca had created the portal to save them, not him. After Paola had woken from her coma, they headed immediately to the island.
Mary continued to watch Paola as the girl smiled at Becca. She even played peek-a-boo with the girl, which might be the most Paola had said since the coma. It seemed like having a younger child around drew Paola out from whatever shell she’d been in.
Dr. Morgan said these things take time.
As if the Black Island doctor could possibly have a clue. They didn’t know what had happened to Paola in the chamber or how Luca had come to bring The Light inside her. The Black Island medical staff was as much in the dark as any of them.
Desmond, however, had his theories, and seemed to believe that Paola’s recovery and her recent waking visions were all good signs.
Easy for him to say: she’s not his daughter.
But if anyone could understand what Paola was going through, it had to be Desmond. He had a bit of The Light inside him, too. He said everyone that Luca saved had The Light inside them, but he seemed more connected than anyone else.
Desmond could see, hear, and do things that Mary sure as hell couldn’t. Nothing as powerful as healing people like Luca, but he had made a coin float, and seemed to be excellent at convincing people that his needs were theirs, even more than before. He also seemed smarter. Desmond had always flirted with genius, but The Light seemed to tune his intelligence tighter, as if it took everything good and made it better.
The mere fact that Desmond managed entry into Black Island Research Facility and had convinced Director Bolton to let him (a civilian) head up a search for the vials spoke volumes for just how much The Light had improved Desmond’s verbal skills. Or it spoke volumes about how desperate Black Island was to get any sort of help in a war it was losing against an enemy it barely knew, let alone knew how to defeat.
“Do you feel different?” she had asked Desmond one night.
“Of course. I’ve been changed from The Light. You have too, Mary. We all have. It’s inside us all.”
Mary did feel stronger, but chalked that up to her many months of training, not some alien DNA or whatever the hell she had coursing through her body. If pressed, Mary would have confessed that she felt nothing special at all.
