4
Finding sleep impossible, Ernst decided to give up and start the day. A momentous day. The first day in all time that the Fhinntmanchca would walk the Earth.
At least that was what he hoped.
He had followed all the ancient teachings, all the lore. It was up to the Orsa now to complete the process.
But if it failed, what would the One say? More important, what would the displeased One do?
His hands shook as he began dressing, making a chore out of fastening his buttons. His suit was wrinkled, but that couldn’t be helped. He needed a shower and a shave, but certainly wasn’t going to share the facilities used by the residents. Besides, the company around here would never notice.
Leaving his cane behind, he stepped out into the hall—and to his shock discovered he was not alone.
At least a dozen Kickers were awake and wandering around. The one called Ansari, bleary-eyed and unshaven, stopped and stared at him.
“You spend the night in your office? What? Your old lady kick you out?”
What an absurd thought. He’d been married for a while—mostly to sire a son—but had learned he was sterile. No point in being married then.
He noticed that the malice in the man’s smile seemed perfunctory, as if he had something troubling weighing on his mind. He glanced around and saw the same look in the other Kickers’ eyes.
He turned to Ansari. “What are you doing up? Why aren’t you sleeping?”
The uneasy look deepened as he shrugged. “No reason. Just awake.”
“Aw, bullshit,” said a passing Kicker. “He had nightmares just like the rest of us.”
“Shove it, Hagaman.”
Hagaman looked at Ernst. “Check out that face. He had bad dreams too, but Mister Tough Guy ain’t gonna admit it.”
“What kind of dreams?”
Hagaman looked uneasy. “Don’t know. Don’t remember much, just that it was bad. Woke me up, and I got up because I didn’t want to go back to sleep again.”
Could the impending arrival of the Fhinntmanchca be behind the dreams? If so, why hadn’t he had any?
“Pussy,” Ansari said, and walked away.
Hagaman appeared about to go after him, but stopped when he looked over Ernst’s shoulder.
“Hey, it’s the boss. And he don’t look so hot neither.”
Ernst had to agree. Hank Thompson looked haggard and haunted.
“Something’s changed,” Thompson said. “Feel it?”
“No.” But he did feel a charge of excitement from what that might mean. “But everyone else seems to.”
Thompson looked at him. “Do you think . . . ?”
“Let’s find out, shall we?”
They headed down to the basement where they found a number of Kickers lounging around the coffeepot. It smelled wonderful, and a few moments ago Ernst would have craved a cup. But the thought of what they might find on the level below had energized him to the point where caffeine would be superfluous.
Thompson turned to him and spoke in a low voice. “Want me to kick them upstairs?”
Ernst’s first instinct was to have him do just that, but he shook his head instead. No use in piquing the curiosity of the rabble.
“That will only draw attention. Proceed as casually as you can.”
“You want to see casual? I’ll show you casual.”
He filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee and then strolled through the basement’s main room. Ernst followed, watching him nod to his followers and slap one or two on the back. They looked up to him. He’d shown them the Kicker Man symbol and awakened them to a brotherhood they hadn’t known they shared. He was “the boss.”
He unlocked the door to the side room. They entered and locked it behind them. Ernst took the lead then, descending to the subcellar. Light from above lit the stairway, but the space below lay in Stygian darkness. Reaching the floor, Ernst felt along the wall, found the light switch, but hesitated. What would he see when the lights went on?
He flipped the switch and the first thing he saw was the Orsa.
“No! Oh, no!” he said, gasping as he hurried forward. “What has happened?”
“What the fuck?” said Thompson behind him.
The Orsa had changed. It looked . . . deflated. Its sides were sunken, caved in; its ends sagged. Its translucence had faded to a dull gray. When he reached it he touched it, and jerked his hand back.
It felt . . . dead. Or if not dead, moribund.
“Hey, where’s Darryl?” Thompson was saying. “Where the fuck is Darryl?”
Panic gripped Ernst. Was Darryl still inside? All was lost if he was. All the years of planning, the expense, the risks . . . all for nothing.
“Mother?” said a weak voice from somewhere beyond the far end of the Orsa.
Ernst’s heart leaped as he and Thompson hurried around to find Darryl kneeling in a pool of clear fluid.
He looked . . . different.
He still looked like Darryl, but a sick Darryl. His face was white, his eyes sunken into dark recesses; his once shaggy hair was plastered to his scalp and forehead, and his beard looked more scraggly than ever. His blue work shirt and worn jeans were wet and stained and seemed to have shrunken on his frame.
And then, just for an instant he shimmered—like a heat mirage.
“Darryl, you made it!” Thompson said as he placed his coffee cup on the dying, desiccated Orsa. Apparently he’d missed the shimmer. He stepped in front of Ernst and approached the man.
Ernst grabbed his arm. “Don’t get too close.”
“Yeah?” Thompson snatched his arm away. “Why the hell not?”
“Look at him. Look closely.”
“I don’t need to look any closer than I’m looking. He looks like a fucking zombie. What—?”
Darryl shimmered again.
Thompson backed up a quick step. “Oh, shit!”
Ernst realized that Darryl himself wasn’t shimmering, but rather the air around him. Looking closely, Ernst could make out an inch-thick layer of roiling air, outlining him like an aura. It didn’t glow, but seemed rather to writhe as if in agony from contact with him.
“It must be part of the change.”
Thompson looked at him. “Change? What change? He was supposed to be healed.”
“Well, healing involves change, of course. Changing from a diseased state to a—”
“Mother?” Darryl said, looking up at Hank.
“Hey, Darryl. It’s me . . . Hank.”
Darryl gave him a blank stare. “Want mother. Thirsty.”
“Okay.” Thompson grabbed his coffee from atop the Orsa. “Try some of this.”
Ernst gripped his arm again. “Be careful.”
Not that he cared about Thompson per se, but as leader of the Kickers, he was the key to a pool of manpower that might prove useful in the future—perhaps the very near future.
Thompson snarled at him. “Why? What have you done to him? You call this cured? Look at him.”
“Just . . . be careful.” He pointed to the floor in front of Darryl. “Why not simply place it there? If he wants it, he can take it.”
Thompson hesitated, then bent and placed the cup a foot or so in front of him, just outside the puddle. Darryl’s hand trembled violently as he reached for the cup. When his fingers reached it—
—the cup exploded, splattering coffee and shards of Styrofoam in every direction.
“Shit!” Thompson cried, ducking away and almost knocking Ernst over.
Ernst stumbled back, brushing coffee from his white suit. Too late. It was stained. Normally he would be infuriated, but not now. Not at all. This was wonderful.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. He’d succeeded. Darryl was now the Fhinntmanchca.
He glanced at the Orsa. Good thing, too. If it wasn’t dead, it was near dead. They would have no second chance.
Looking more confused than ever, Darryl said, “Thirsty.”
“Then you must drink,” said a fourth voice.
Ernst recognized it immediately. He turned and found himself face-to-face with the One.