The Dark at the End

12

A man who was something more than a man, who was known as the One to many and as Rasalom to a few, who had numerous names, the most important known only to him, strode through the airport toward the baggage area.

The solid floor of the terminal felt good beneath his feet. Such a relief to tread solid ground again-ground that would soon be his. He was not one for anxiety, yet he’d experienced a few moments of concern during the flight, especially when the plane had dipped and yawed in the rough weather toward the end. The pilot had mentioned something about an East Coast storm. He could survive far more trauma than any of his fellow passengers, but he had limits.

How ironic, after all the dangers he’d survived across the millennia of his life, to die in a plane crash when he stood on the brink of his ultimate victory.

He had been to China where he stood atop Minya Konka. The planet’s largest nexus point is located there. He had stood naked within it, his feet resting upon a buried pillar, communing with the Otherness, preparing for the Change.

For the time was near… close, so close he could taste it. So could the Otherness. It hovered, poised to reenter this world, slavering to engulf this reality.

It knew of his plan and approved. No more surrogates, no more underlings doing his bidding. He would handle this entirely on his own, because he could act freely now, without fear of retribution from Glaeken.

Glaeken… He shook his head with chagrin. He had spent the entire time since his last rebirth looking over his shoulder, wondering when Glaeken would strike. The man had fooled Rasalom before, lulled him into believing he had wearied of his role in the Conflict and retired from the field of battle. Rasalom had let down his guard and, as a result, had spent half a millennium languishing in a stone prison in a remote pass in the Transylvanian Alps.

And when he’d thought he’d found a way free, Glaeken had shown up and slain him with that cursed sword.

But now the sword was gone, as was its hilt, and Glaeken had been stripped of his immortality-aging since he’d slain Rasalom at the keep. He was now an impotent, doddering old man who could do nothing to stop the Change. He had his Heir working for him, but the Heir was no Glaeken. He carried not an iota of his predecessor’s experience or cunning. He was no threat. After the Change, Rasalom would tear him into tiny screaming pieces, and make Glaeken watch. And then he would move onto his wife, and take even longer with her.

How different things would be now had Rasalom known all this upon his rebirth. All that wasted time…

But now he was poised to end this battle. All the pieces were in play. He merely had to wait for the proper alignment, and that wouldn’t be long.

He drank in the emotions oozing from the cattle around him. Normally an airport did little to ease his hunger. Too many of the cattle were headed for vacations, filled with pleasant anticipation about their destination-rest, relaxation, fun activities, good food, good drink, good sex. Occasionally he’d come across one in a near panic about flying, and that was a pleasing hors d’oeuvre, but he rarely found enough of them to qualify as even a snack.

This evening was different. The air was redolent of anxiety over the weather and the safety of flying and whether or not their precious flight would be canceled. And even better: the crushing disappointment of those whose flights had already been canceled-especially the children. The young ones’ emotions were so intense. Their joy was like a knife in his heart, but their anger, sadness, fear blended into a splendidly potent cocktail.

But the emotions here, now, were nothing compared to what the Change would precipitate. Grief and fear would reign at first, but would devolve into hate and rage and violence as resources became scarce and the cattle gouged and maimed and killed for scraps of food and sips of water.

He looked at the passing faces and smiled. Yes, after the Change these average humans will engage daily in actions they presently consider unthinkable. The fragile mental constructs the herds call civilization will crumble, their rational veneers will flake away to reveal the beast lurking just below the surface.

Fear… fear was the gateway to debasement-of others, of the self-and debasement was ambrosia, the piece de resistance. Fear was the key to everything that empowered the Otherness and, consequently, Rasalom.

Fear will rule as their mortal world is transformed, as the very rules of nature shift and twist into tortured parodies of everything they once relied upon. Their sun will go out, and in the ensuing nightworld, every shadow will hide the threat of agony, the very air will scorch their skin and scald their eyes, and they’ll pray that every searing breath will be their last. But it will not. They’ll live on and on, and the Otherness will feed and feed.

As will I.

For he would undergo his own Change-into a new form adapted to the new Earth… the Other Earth.

When the Change was ready to begin, he would return to the summit of Minya Konka to be imbued with the seeds of his own Change.

All that stood between him and that day was the Lady.

But she would not be standing too much longer.

He arrived at the baggage area but saw no sign of Georges. Had the snow slowed him? No excuse. He should have left earlier.

He pulled out his phone. He’d shut it down during the flight and hadn’t yet turned it back on. The display lit with the date and local time, plus a little envelope at the bottom. A message? As wonderful as these little devices were-how different the First Age wars might have turned out had these been available-he felt they had too many options. He did not like text messages, and apparently he had one.

He toiled through the menu and discovered he had two, both sent while he was in flight. And both from Gilda. He knew she frequently texted her son. Perhaps she thought a text was the best way to leave a message while he was in the air.

He opened the first:

The child is ill. We must take him to hospital.

He frowned. Ill? He did not like the sound of that. The child had become integral to his plans-delicate plans, easily thrown off. It wouldn’t do for it to become seriously ill. But hadn’t that doctor, that surgeon who had excised his tentacles-Heinze, wasn’t it? Hadn’t he been out to the house just yesterday and pronounced him in excellent health?

Good thing the tentacles were gone. Dr. Landsman, who had delivered the child, had lobbied for the amputations, saying that if the child ever needed inpatient care, the tentacles would cause a tremendous stir-headlines in the tabloids, reporters, medical specialists, geneticists, TV camera crews. A circus.

He now was glad he had listened.

He glanced at the message again. No mention of which hospital. Perhaps in the second message. He noted it was sent almost three hours after the first.

He opened it:

He is very sick. They are admitting him. My phone does not work in hospital. Georges will fill you in when he picks you up.

… very sick… not good at all. This could ruin everything.

Still no mention of which hospital. Had they taken him someplace in the Hamptons or to the city? Probably the latter. Dr. Heinze would most likely want to be involved in his care.

He tried calling Gilda but her voice mail came on immediately. Had she turned off her phone or was the hospital jamming it? He’d heard that some hospitals did that. Well, he would have to depend on Georges.

Speaking of whom, where was he?

He speed-dialed Georges’s number but was shifted to his voice mail immediately too. Was he still at the hospital with Gilda? That was no excuse.

He turned and saw his bag riding the carousel. He refused to walk over and pick it up. That was Georges’s job.

And Georges had better have a very good reason for not being here.