The Missing Boatman Part 22

"You'll get your crazies that will start putting their suspicions to the test. People will start jumping off buildings, driving cars over cliffs. Shooting themselves or whatever just to see. And they will. They'll all live, Tony. It will only take something truly horrible to put the nail through that people can no longer die. Then..."

Lucy's face was true. "Chaos."

"Chaos?" Tony tasted the word as sour as cheap booze.

"Yes. What do you think will happen when people realize they can't die?"

Images and sensations blurred through his mind, all stamped with the word chaos. It sure as f.u.c.k would be chaos. And that was putting it lightly. He took a deep breath and fixed her with a look devoid of hope. "So what do we have to do?"

"We," Lucy stated quietly, another tear slipping down her face, "have to find Frank."

Chapter 27.

Fear hated walking. f.u.c.king despised it. Walking was for losers, and he was getting more and more p.i.s.sed that only losers walked. Only losers walked. The short message replayed itself in his head. He took a few steps and cursed walking as walking was, again, only for losers. He was far from being a loser. Yet, here he f.u.c.king was. Walking.

Why didn't he get a car? He could afford it. Easily. And one with a G.o.dd.a.m.n better sound system than that rat-f.u.c.k Tony had in his piece of s.h.i.+t car. Fear could not believe his luck. Of all the wonderful sound systems available in cars today, he had been stuck in a f.u.c.king antique. And a Ford at that! How the h.e.l.l anyone could drive anything made by Ford these days was beyond him. He was a firm believer in Toyota. The j.a.panese knew their cars. And the Germans. It struck Freddy as odd then that the two losers of the second Great War were putting out the best cars. Almost like a very quiet "f.u.c.k you" one might try to disguise in a cough. And you could buy beer practically anywhere in both countries.

The fires in Fear burned mightily as he trudged onwards through the blackness of night on that lonely strip of highway. Freezing wind smacked him in the face, and snow lashed his flesh, melting on contact. He had been on the road for hours, it seemed, and four cars travelling past had not stopped to pick him up. Anger. Fear was so incredibly p.i.s.sed off. p.r.i.c.ks. They were all p.r.i.c.ks. Two cars had slowed down, but they had only slowed down for a moment before bolting like discovered deer. Almost as if they had sensed who he was at the last possible second.

Freddy did not give a rat's a.s.s. Not a ball's deep donkey f.u.c.k.

He was Fear. Fear walking. Fear incarnate in G.o.dforsaken flesh.

And on this cold night in March, in total darkness made only deeper when watching the red receding lights of cars drive away, Fear was totally consumed with rage.

Walk it off, he told himself. Walk it off. Turn the negative energy into something positive. He saw it on a health show once. Anger Management. They had suggested yoga and meditation, too, but like f.u.c.k Fear was going to get into a lotus position out here. f.u.c.k that. FFFFFFF-and he really could not stress the 'F' sound enough-FFFf.u.c.k that.

And it was all because of Tony. And that b.i.t.c.h Lucy. Fear was actually more p.i.s.sed off at Lucy than the Mundane. The b.i.t.c.h. Picking her a.s.s up did not allow her to get him kicked out of the car in the middle of nowhere. And kicked him out she had. She nullified the control Fear had put into the little s.h.i.+t Tony. Tony had been all his, and it was just like her Highness to stick her a.s.s down where it wasn't needed or wanted. Fear could have completed the task without her. And what was she doing out there on the road anyway? Did Time figure someone else should accompany Tony? If he hadn't wanted Fear to go along, then why a.s.sign him in the first place? Jesus, it was infuriating to be subjected to such inefficiency. Hate wasn't an emotion unknown to him. In fact, Hate and he had done quite well together in cards. But Fear did just as well on his own without Hate. Fear did just f.u.c.king fine.

He stomped his way along the Trans-Canada, in the night, stopping several times to bellow "f.u.c.k THIS!" at the blackness surrounding him, and then kept right on walking. He walked on for what seemed to be an eternity and that got him thinking about Time again. Why hadn't he manipulated time for Fear to make this little stroll go faster? Someone was going to have a serious G.o.dd.a.m.n talking to once Fear got home.

He kept on thinking black thoughts even as he came to an off-highway exit. Fear did not acknowledge the sign. He just walked down the slope, steaming his way through the gathering snow like some prehistoric machine. He paused once at the base, roared "f.u.c.k THIS!" and continued on again.

Traffic increased along this new strip of road, but not one slowed for him. It was well past midnight. f.u.c.k them too.

f.u.c.k them all.

He eventually walked into the edge of town, the lights of the houses glowing in the distance. He saw the glow of the Black Bear, a roadhouse bar, and marched towards the war-bunker shaped establishment. The place probably looked its best in the winter when it was covered in snow with a background of black timberland. Bars like this on the fringe of town always made Fear think of the clientele it served, so-called hicks and hard a.s.ses. Townies. Fear didn't care. He was p.i.s.sed, and he wanted a shot. He made his way toward the Black Bear. As he drew closer, he saw how the exterior paint was old and how it lacked windows. Obviously the owner didn't give a d.a.m.n. The signal sign in orange light illuminating "The Black Bear" hung to the upper right of the doors. A snow covered veranda lay to the left of the doors. Fear thought the whole place would probably have been torn down and replaced by a condo the next time he was in this part of the country.

Just then the double doors burst open, and two of the local boys stumbled out into the night air, laughing and swearing loudly. One tried to slam the doors, but the spring mechanism mounted at the top of the frame would not allow it. With a drunken roar, he heaved his shoulder into the door. It closed immediately. Someone shouted from within.

"f.u.c.kin' whatever!" shouted the one that did not attack the door. His friend giggled hoa.r.s.ely at that, the same kind of high pitched giggle that marked the annoying sidekick of a bad 80's movie bully. Both men squared off at each other, then, like apes pus.h.i.+ng for territory. They started swearing.

Stupid f.u.c.king apes.

Fear walked towards them, hands shoved deep into his pockets. One of the apes, a young college boy type perhaps already flunked out of university due to excessive drinking, saw Fear approach. His red eyes opened wide at the potential amus.e.m.e.nt here.

"Hey Stevie, lookit!"

Stevie. Fear despised it when grown men insisted on ending their names with an 'ie' or a 'y.' It sounded stupid to him. Davy, Stevie, Terry. The bile started to rise just thinking about it. No doubt the monkeys ahead thought it the coolest thing.

"Lookit, Stevie! A bald night owl!" and a finger pointed. The man drew breath to laugh.

And Fear unleashed himself.

The monkey that had been smiling suddenly clamped its jaws shut. His eyes bulged and he staggered-flung-himself backwards. Stevie did the same, pus.h.i.+ng himself away from the night owl with a terrible, mindless energy only reserved for when one was truly in mortal danger. Stevie's buddy fell back five feet and landed on his a.s.s, arms and legs still moving, still trying to put distance between him and Fear. Stevie launched himself into and over a wall of piled up snow, his legs swimming in the air as he took himself out of sight.

Fear's being hissed. Fear was power, even over those as blasted with spirits as these two. The fact that they had been drinking enabled their dull senses from being utterly paralyzed by the blast Fear sent in their direction. They should have been curled up on the ground, vomiting whatever was in their stomachs onto their silk s.h.i.+rts.

Fear, the mortal equivalent of his true name, marched by the helpless men. They were no threat to him or anyone for the rest of the week, and many people would be wondering how they got their premature grey hair. Fear was power. Fear was control.

And right now, Fear was p.i.s.sed off with existence.

As he entered the Black Bear, cigarette smoke enveloped him and accosted his senses. The drift of pot was in the air. He made a face at the smells of sweat, tobacco, booze and puke, and the parasitic partying accompanying them. The doors closed softly behind him, still functioning despite the earlier battering. People looked him over once, people on the dance floor glanced in his direction as well, and then went right back to their mindless courts.h.i.+ps and revelries. People ringing a pool table looked him over. They went back to their game. People mingled and mashed together underneath the roof of the Black Bear, completely oblivious to who had just entered their midst.

f.u.c.k them all, Fear griped and made his way towards the bar. He wasn't in the mood for concealment, and he projected a steam shovel of terror before him. The mortal ma.s.s of bodies parted for him like a greased zipper. Where there were packed people standing shoulder to shoulder at the bar, now there was only an empty s.p.a.ce and the bartender. Fear cleared elbow s.p.a.ce equal to about three bodies on either side of him. Behind him, the dance floor raved on to some music where the beat was louder than anything else.

The bartender, a big man in his forties and covered in a ma.s.s of black pubic hair, stared at the strange newcomer with the oddly shaped head as he stepped up to the bar. Fear regarded the man. Perhaps this was the black bear himself? He looked fierce enough.

Fear pushed, and the faade of the man split like cheap plywood.

"Whiskey," Fear commanded, placing a single finger down on the bar where he expected the drink to appear.

The Black Bear steadied himself, and blinked at this character's gall, doing an admirable job of fighting down his fear. Fear allowed him so that he could be better served. The Black Bear reached for a bottle of Jack Daniels. Fear saw the bottle and approved. He was a fan of Jack's. The man did good work. Fear could feel eyes on him still, but no one dared approach. At the end of the bar, a drunken man kept himself upright through blind determination alone. A pay phone was on the wall, and the receiver was practically in his mouth.

"DO YOU SCREW?" he shouted into the device. "DO YOU SCREW? I SAID DO YOU SCREW?"

Fear shook his head. It was fools like this that gave Mundanes a bad rep. And it was fools like this that gave him the most resistance. It was always the spirits they drank. Call it confidence or courage, but Fear knew it was really a lack of intelligence and willpower to simply give oneself up to the drift of alcohol or any other vice.

"DO YOU SCREWWWW?" the drunk wailed into the telephone. He became angry with the telephone then, and slammed the receiver back into the cradle. Black Bear turned at the noise, pausing in the preparation of Fear's drink. The drunk glowered at the bartender, "f.u.c.k YOU!" he lurched, sticking his chin out.

The Bear had stopped pouring.

That irritated Fear.

Fear fixed the drunken man with a look. The drunk saw him, and his frame sucked in air, no doubt to spray forth another 'f.u.c.k you.'

Fear unleashed himself at the man like a missile.

Not even the bullet proof amount of booze the drunk had consumed could protect him from that single concentrated beam. The man's head backed up on his neck as if smashed by iron. He fell backwards, cras.h.i.+ng into patrons behind. He landed on the floor. No sooner on his back when he vomited, a dark geyser that fountained upwards and covered his features. Like Fear when he entered the bar, the people around the downed drunk pulled back from him.

"Christ," the Black Bear exclaimed, placing the shot of sour mash whiskey exactly where Fear wanted it. The Black Bear motioned for his bouncers to move in on the downed drunk. "Not even Friday," Black Bear said sourly.

Then to Fear he said, bravely, "That's five fifty."

Fear paid the man. He paid when he owed. He may have been many things, but he paid when he owed. It balanced him.

"New around here, ain't cha?" Black Bear shouted at him over the house music. Fear looked him straight in the eye. The look made the barkeep much more interested in whatever he had on tap, and he immediately busied himself with other customers. That was smart of him, Fear thought. He sipped on his drink and felt its fire. Good.

Fear was power. Perhaps that was what Time was trying to prove by making Fear walk. He could do a lot of things but he could not shorten or lengthen time while he was in mortal form. It wasn't his talent. And in this, at a time where speed was needed most, Fear found himself stranded in G.o.dd.a.m.n nowhere land and removed from his charge. The charge he never wanted in the first place, but to strand him out here p.i.s.sed him off. Why get him to go so far with the punk if they were going to replace him with Lucy? Did they disapprove of the method in which Fear motivated the Mundane? Could that be it? Jesus Christ! Hypocritical! How did they figure they were any different? It just irked him how they threw their talents around, and after a mess or two, just stood back and pleaded innocence. Fear was what he did. Everyone knew it. And in the coming days, he was going to be extremely busy, which was yet another reason for him to be angry. Yet they wanted him to take care of the Tony tool like a f.u.c.king nursemaid. Did one place a shark in an aquarium to guard goldfish?

Fear ground his perfect teeth and slammed back the last of his drink. Fire. Jesus, that was good. He bared his teeth at the burn and surveyed those about him. Meat. All of them. Yet, he needed one to transport him west. For all of his power, Fear could not drive. He cast his gaze about the bar.

Who was going to be the lucky one?

Chapter 28.

Ten minutes past midnight, Ralph Maia switched on the lamp in his office. Eight men stood around his desk, dressed casually. All of them waited for their chief to speak. They had been summoned to the station with the rest of the night crew, and they had been ordered to form up here before Maia. However, unlike the rest of the night crew, only these eight stood before him now while the others slept. They waited for Maia with the air of school kids waiting for an authority figure to announce something important. Something like a school's out. There was something to this night. They could all sense it. Maia felt their growing excitement and decided to let it build just a few seconds more. One man's dark features were on the verge of exploding. Peters always was the most excitable and one of the most dangerous. He possessed a wiry frame and a temper which was as short as the fuses on the fire bombs he constructed. He believed that if he couldn't feel a twinge of danger over something so destructive, then he just did not want to do it. The others understood Peters, but they were wary of the firelight dancing in his black eyes, the potential for chaos on a spectacular scale. Some of the men present had no preference over who they burned. Peters did. He liked children. How he ever restrained himself from frying the world and all of the kids in it would forever be a mystery to Maia. The men thought of him as crazy. Maia regarded him as unstable as nitro and never to be used until the gloves came off.

There was Bull Wash, the door breaker. Bull had come from northern British Columbia. Big and blond and silent, his shoulders were rounded and bulging like great boulders, and the force they generated was something of firehouse legend. He still travelled north for the occasional felling of firewood and to partake in the local lumberjack compet.i.tions. He always came close, according to the media. Maia knew the man was simply holding back. Like Peters, Wash's eyes held a craziness, a total abandonment if a dangerous task was to be performed. If challenged to a fight-few would really dare to take on the blond giant-it would be to the death.

Both Peters and Bull Wash were Maia's favourites, the two he could count on. They were his rooks in a greater game of chess. There were the others as well. Saunders was reliable but itched constantly to torch something. He controlled his impulses, but, frankly, the fire chief was glad the man would not have to hold back much longer. Maia would sometimes placate both him and Peters by allowing them to ignite some house blaze. Planned arson was something close to Christmas to them all, and catching old folks or kids in a house fire was a thing to riverdance about.

Then there were the Hansons, bespectacled brothers with frames like retired welterweights. The muscle and speed were still there. If Peters and Bull Wash were rooks, then the Hansons were the knights.

There were Marvin and Edwards. Both revelled in forest fires and perhaps would be better suited for hooks and pitchforks rather than extinguishers and fire hoses. Edwards also enjoyed electrical fires and rigging device failure. His greatest scalp to date was a catholic priest out in Calgary, whose trapped car consumed him like a candle wick being flashed with napalm.

Finally, standing behind them was Northman. Grey Northman was new to the group and not especially talkative. When they did talk, it was said that he was a jack of all trades. He seduced smokers to light up in bed, he enticed children to play with matches and aerosol cans. He took a particular interest in watching fat fires consume a kitchen. Though all of the Minions present maintained the masquerade as stand up firemen and even family men in their community, laughing at the Mundanes they walked amongst and often toyed with, all of them perceived Grey Northman as an oddity. He was middle aged and had no family-something that had proved to be useful to the Minions. He did not laugh at the others' trophy kills, but rather quietly judged each of them as if grading for some unknown purpose. Northman was ordinary looking, average-build and as educated as any of the Minions, yet there was something not quite right about him. Peters found the man creepy in a mad scientist kind of way, which he confessed to Maia. The admission amused the h.e.l.l out of the fire chief, especially coming from the likes of Peters who would probably, personally, put his wife and new born daughter to the torch when the time arrived.

The Minions enjoyed starting fires for the sheer delight of watching those hungry ribbons of orange feast, unleas.h.i.+ng the fiercest beast of all at the simple strike of a match. Northman was different. He dabbled as if testing something or searching for a result of some kind; the kind of character that would stuff a cat into a microwave and record the predictable outcome. A Minion he was, but he was perhaps the most sinister where the others were borderline mental cases. He was the most reluctant to talk about his past, to talk about anything in fact, even to the fire chief.

He kept order, however, and Ralph Maia was glad of it. As Minions went, all had their quirks. He was fortunate his cell's quirks did not reveal their ident.i.ty. They were all close to the edge, however, and maintaining the illusion of protectors was becoming more and more difficult with each pa.s.sing day, like sharks muzzled and then being forced to swim in blood. There had been others who could not maintain the lie, and their final act of pyromania usually included themselves, the desire to unleash the beast finally overwhelming their tortured minds. If their monster did not consume them, Maia or someone like them would ensure that the unhinged Minion would be put down with extreme prejudice. Ultimately, their deaths served the remaining Minions' masquerade. Maybe that was the thing troubling Maia about Grey Northman. Perhaps Northman was very close to the edge. Perhaps, even now, he was entertaining ideas of self-immolation, becoming the heart of a monster of fire and smoke.

Maia would have to keep an eye on him from now on. Just in case. Nothing could be at risk.

"Gentlemen," Maia spoke as he beheld the gathered firemen around him, "I have received a message."

They became still then, listening for his words, hoping the word; the word to burn everything down. And with the command came the end of their false ident.i.ties, free to shed their skin for their true forms. They all longed for it.

Maia was evil enough to let them wait and suffer with suspense before saying, "But it was not the word."

The disappointment in the room was as despised as heavy rain. Several eyes glowered at the floor and the desk's surface as if stares alone could ignite it all.

"But," Maia added sweetly, "I expect the word soon."

How a few sounds could transform the mood, the fire chief reflected. Hope now surged in their faces. Even Northman's usually indifferent expression had been replaced with a glow.

"How do you know?" Peters wanted to know, his voice full of awe.

"The Boatman is missing," Maia informed them all.

Silence from the now stunned Minions.

"How," Northman squinted at Maia, "can this be? What do you mean, 'missing'?"

"He is gone. Haven't you noticed?"

Northman's head slowly arched back as if sniffing the air. His eyes, cold and dark, stared down the length of his nose. "Yes," he said finally, "I sense it now. Faint... but it's there."

"It'll get stronger soon enough. Just like flesh left to rot in the sun," Maia grinned at him.

Northman did not grin back.

"So we can unleash the beasts?" Peters asked for them all.

Maia shook his head. "No. Not yet. We don't have the word. We do have a task given to us. We must see to it that the Boatman stays missing. There are those who are searching for him. Everywhere. They are legion, and there will be some here soon enough. We must find them before they do-yes, that means the Boatman is here somewhere. He has taken up residence in some bag of flesh here, but don't concern yourselves with him. Focus your efforts on the ones coming. They are searching for him, and their time is short. All we have to do is stop them." He met the faces of his Minions, one by one. "Just long enough for the Mundanes to smell the same thing we're smelling now. Long enough for them to taste it and rip everything apart in their panic. That's all we have to do."

Bull Wash appeared confused. "But, if the Boatman is missing..." he paused as his brain turned itself over, "how do we to stop them? Kill them?"

Maia grinned again, a wide vampiric cut of a smile. "Any way you want. With the Boatman gone, the suffering they'll experience will be... exceptional. The word will probably come within days or hours. No longer than a week. I'm certain of that."

The Hansons smiled at one another with evil understanding. Northman looked as if schemes were already forming in his skull. Realization that the word was near brought impish eagerness to the faces of them all.

Then Peters spoke again, "What about the others here tonight? The rest of the crew? The Mundanes?"

Still grinning, Maia stepped back and reached for something out of sight, behind his desk. He held up a fire axe.

"I'll prove to you the Boatman is gone," the fire chief said. "Right now."

The gathered Minions smiled like skulls.

Chapter 29.

It could not have been any more than an hour on the road. An hour and twenty minutes tops since they had left the motel that morning under a cold overcast sky. Tony felt the same rush from the day before, except this time it wasn't as strong; it was diluted somehow. He didn't get sick.