1
Black paced the Spartan, low-lit hotel room.
It was only a matter of time.
After thirty years of government service, he’d finally screwed up — big time.
Or had he?
The problem was he didn’t know whether this was his doing, or that other’s. It seemed no matter what he did, he just couldn’t shake that guy. That Man With No Name, that burr in his side for nearly as many years.
Nightmare Man.
Black hammered a wall with a clenched fist.
Damn him!
Now, what the hell was he supposed to do? He couldn’t go back to The Center nor his apartment. Yet, as pissed and apprehensive as he was, he was also exploding with euphoria!
Exhilaration!
What power he’d just wielded!
To do what he’d just done… what no other person in the world could do, or had ever done before… killed all those important, gifted people. People who would, could, and have changed the world.
He’d just taken them all out.
Him.
And by doing this, he’d just changed the world himself… and his name would forever go down in the classified annals of history and he’d be remembered and feared for that.
Who was the powerful one, now, J-Fucking-K? Mess with me, will you?
You may have the official power, but I pull all the puppet strings — I wield all real power — in the dark, in the background — where the real work is performed. In all the dirty little places you’re too good for, too afraid to tread. I live there. I’m the one who actually dirties his hands and actually gets things done and doesn’t just make the ivory tower decisions to get things done. I am the wielder of the
(bayonet)
sword.
He paced the room. Were he a drinking man, he’d already have broken open a bottle, but he wasn’t. He had other ways to celebrate. Other needs —
There was a light knock at the door.
Black checked the peephole, unlocked, then opened the door.
The attractive, unsmiling woman in her forties, who looked as if she’d been around a block or two, slipped inside without eye contact. Black closed and locked the door behind her.
The woman removed her coat, revealing a tight thigh-high skirt, loose chemise top, and platform, come-fuck-me shoes. Black eyed her like a hungry bear emerging from hibernation. He went to her, grabbed her by her narrow waist, and pulled her into him. Viscously kissing her, drew blood from her lips. The woman didn’t resist.
Black reached for her shoulders and began pulling at her chemise blouse.
“Just a minute,” the woman said, in a hushed tone, “let me…”
Black backed away, eying her like a predator.
The woman intently held Black’s gaze and removed her top, revealing a black brassiere.
Black — maintaining eye contact — began undoing his tie and shirt.
Her face blank, the woman crossed her arms, tilted her head, and shifted her weight. She kicked off one platform shoe, then the other. Black finished removing his shirt and lunged for her. The woman forcefully thrust out an arm, a hand to the center of his bare chest. Black stopped, grinning. The woman backed him up against the wall, holding Black’s increasingly evil gaze. The woman then backed up a half step and brought both her hands up behind her to undo her brassiere.
Leaning back against the wall, Black closed his eyes and grunted deep, animal growls, while he loosened his belt…
Swift as lightening and out from behind her back, the woman pulled two four-inch razor-sharp blades, which she quickly and professionally spun around in her hands… and drove deep into Black’s chest.
Black expelled a surprised puff of air.
In the blink of an eye, she removed the blades, and in another swift and passionate stroke, slit his throat.
Not once, but twice.
Wide-eyed and gagging up blood, Black staggered against the wall.
Before he could further react, the woman fell upon him in a flurry of rage and blades, her face now contorted into a mask of unadulterated, seething hatred.
No more rape!
No more humiliation!
No more on-call fuck receptacle!
In a hazed frenzy and bathed in his blood, the woman hacked and slashed his face then leaned into him and shouldered him up against the wall, as she repeatedly (and repeatedly) used his groin as a pin cushion.
Bayonet and twist…
Bayonet and twist…
Twice got her knives stuck in his pelvis bone, which required an extra hip check to remove…
When she was done, she pulled away like a cork from a champagne bottle, and what was left of Black dumped to the floor. The woman continued several more impassioned, angry slices through the air, spraying blood across the furniture and far walls before, she, too, collapsed to the floor. On her knees, she supported herself upright, knives still clenched in her fists, gasping for air and still emitting periodic barks of animalistic grunts and growls.
The woman hung her head and wept…
Then abruptly stopped.
Went into a thousand-yard stare.
Slowly came to her feet.
Defiant, bloodied knives hanging to her sides in white-knuckled and clenched fists, she came to her full height and looked to the blood-splattered wall, the mangled body.
Inhaled several gulps of air.
“It’s over,” she said, inhaling deeply. “Over…”
“You all right?” a voice asked through the microphone implant in her ear.
“Fine. I’m… fine.”
Her body now trembling, she went to the door, unlocked it, and turned away. Still clutching her bloodied blades, she retreated back away from the door. Again stood before Black, his body slumped at a weird angle at the intersection of the wall and floor.
Stared at him.
Her mouth continued to work for air. Her face remained contorted with disgust and rage.
She spit on him.
Men-in-black stormed the room and immediately set to work.
One came up to the woman and carefully pried the knives from her clenched and bloodied fists. Looked deeply into her eyes. The woman turned slowly to him and gradually came to focus on his eyes.
“Are you okay?” the man again asked.
The woman turned back to her handiwork, watching as what was left of Black was unceremoniously crammed into a black body bag. She again spit on him, as he was removed past her. Handing off the knives to another waiting behind him, the man then took the blanket handed him by another and began to wrap the woman within it — when she raised a hand in protest. Holding her head high, she left with another, who’d been motioned over toward her. She was escorted out the door and into an awaiting black van. The van immediately departed before its door was closed.
Black’s apartment was sanitized.
It was as if he’d never existed.
2
Lizzie awoke dazed. Every inch of her body throbbed from some kind of full-body pummeling. Fluttering open her eyelids (which even seemed to hurt), she found herself hanging at a weird, canted angle. Something brushed across her face, while something else acrid burned up into her nostrils.
Plane.
Escape.
Crash!
A crash — they’d been going down — Travis and the President and the pilots and the President’s bodyguard and her — they’d had an engine failure of some kind, the pilots had said, lost altitude. Lizzie took a quick psychic peek and found several bullets — from Black — had severed fuel lines and punctured electronics — as well as the port engine. The pilots tried, but what could they do? They did the only thing they could and steered clear of populated areas… tried to keep as low an angle of attack with the ground as possible…
The next series of events had happened fast… they’d lost altitude and had come in hot, a term she’d heard the President use, over the tree tops. Actually heard and felt trees scrape across the bottom of the aircraft — the weirdest sound she’d ever heard, given their situation — past windows, then there was…
Confusion. Explosions. Unconsciousness.
Some very weird dreams.
Now, she hung from an angle that hurt, in a seat that clearly wasn’t as secured to the floor as it had been when she’d been strapped into it, with — she saw — deployed oxygen masks dangling before her. And that smell that burned her nostrils was the caustic odor of electrical fires and jet fuel.
Human flesh.
Blinking to clear her vision, she saw the plane listed to its port side, its nose slightly elevated. Smoke was still filling the cabin, but for some reason, hadn’t engulfed it. She heard popping and sizzling sounds, but also something else:
Birds.
Looking up, she saw the gaping hole.
To her left, a large section of Learjet had been torn free. She could see birds and trees and sky—
An awakening morning sky.
Lizzie tried to move, but her side hurt — whether from having been banged around or from just having been hanging at this rather uncomfortable angle for who knew how long.
Fumbling with her belt release, fighting bruised and clumsied and cramped hands, and her bodyweight pressed against the buckle, she finally undid it and tumbled out to the sloped floor. She yelped out in pain as she slid down into the slanted bulkhead. She felt like she was in some crazy, burned-out, Fun House. On her way down toward the angled bulkhead, Lizzie passed something “interesting” that briefly registered with her, but she couldn’t think clear or fast enough to identify it. After a grunt or two of pain, she took stock in her situation. Yes, she was indeed bruised and battered in a few places, even
(knives)
cut — had some drying blood on her face and hands and arms — but apparently nothing serious. She was a little dizzy and disoriented, but felt herself quickly overcoming that.
The worst sensory inputs seemed to be coming from around her.
Lizzie carefully braced herself, trying not to land her hands on anything
(knives…)
sharp, charred, or burning, and positioned herself for a better look. She looked for the pilots, but saw no signs of life from the flight deck, which looked quite bashed in, when one of her hands landed on something soft.
The President!
Lizzie quickly scrambled to the former President, who, she now saw, along with his body guard, lay lifeless in a twisted mass among the wreckage. Lizzie tried to move him, but his body behaved in a weird, unnatural way, part of it wedged tightly and unable to move.
Charred.
His back broken.
“Damn it…” Lizzie said.
It was amazing how light he felt, even under all that wreckage. Older people always got lighter. Felt good on the scales, she was sure, but the mechanics of osteoporosis weren’t anything to look forward to.
Travis!
Lizzie spun around, looking for her rescuer.
“Travis!” she called, “Trav—”
He, too, remained in his seat, but both he and his seat had been totally uprooted from the aircraft’s deck. He — his legs — were the “interesting thing” she’d slid past on her way down across the floor.
As she looked to him, she saw that he and his seat had not only been ripped from the floor, but were also twisted up in the wreckage. As she forced Travis and his seat back to better examine him, a startled cry escaped her. A large sliver of contorted metal had screwed itself into Travis’s chest about where his heart should be. It reminded her of
A bayoneting?
Lizzie bent down and touched him.
He was cold.
Or as cold as one could be among a fiery wreck. Again, she squeamishly reached for him, checking for a pulse… this was a mere formality… as expected, there wasn’t one.
“God damn, Black!”
Lizzie allowed herself to fall back against the bulkhead, angrily kicking at wreckage and slamming her fists against the enclosure as she slid to the floor. Took in the smell and full scene of destruction. Psychically reaching out, she didn’t feel anyone still hanging around.
They’d all quickly departed, and that was good.
Better to move on than stick around the scene of your passing. People died for a reason, and part of that reason was to move on. Good for them. But—
Why her?
Why was she to survive? And why had the others who’d rescued her from Black have to die? All these people she didn’t even know… had given their lives to save her.
Why?
Why had she been so worth saving?
Wouldn’t she soon be caught anyway, given Black — or whomever — would soon, surely, send rescue aircraft, search teams—
Mommy, the tiny voice whispered, it’ll all be all right. We’ll help you. Help you remember…
Lizzie closed her eyes and was barraged by images flying far too fast to make sense of, especially now. Slowing down the psychic barrage she was able to delineate the images… images of the compound from which she’d just been rescued… but also saw in that very same Blue Ridge Mountain location other “centers”… nongovernment ones… metaphysical ones… similar, but different…
Schools? Institutes?
For whom?
Us, the ghost-child responded.
Lizzie saw a school of uncommon instruction for a whole new breed of… saint? Psychic?
Humanity?
Saw the person who ran it… a woman who felt…
That’s you, Mommy, the ghostly child said, giggling.
Me?
You’re gonna direct and lead this school… and it will become a new place of learning… enlightenment. It will echo across the planet — consciousness itself — on a scale yet unheard of. We will come… to learn, to grow… become the new breed of humanity… and we call you “mommy” because you’ll be like a mother to us when we arrive… and because you’ve always wanted children…
As Lizzie’s heart swelled with emotion, she saw that The JFK Center no longer seemed to be there… or was, at one time, but had been… abandoned? Saw other versions of institutions… existing in the same location? It didn’t make sense.
Different times… different probabilities…
But what of Black?
He’s gone, the girl said, her tone changing. Burned too many bridges. Was a very bad man. We don’t have to worry about him anymore.
“What about… the man… the One With No Name?” Lizzie asked, slowly, stiffly getting to her feet. She leaned against the bulkhead for support. A smiling image of the Man With No Name entered her mind. Yeah, he’ll be fine.
Lizzie peered ahead into the still-smoking cabin where, she was sure, were what remained of the pilots entangled in tree branches, electrical wire, twisted metal, and shattered Plexiglas.
You probably don’t want to go in there, the girl said. It’s not pretty.
Okay.
Lizzie again examined herself. She seemed to be in one piece, no worse for the wear, though she did hurt all over and had a slightly banged-up leg. It was hard to straighten up into a fully upright position. Her side still hurt, but she could manage.
You’ll be okay, Mommy.
Think so?
Know so. We’ll help you find your way home.
I’m gonna need that, since last I remember, my home had up and disappeared…
We’ll find you a new one.
Lizzie chuckled — which also hurt.
You should probably get going. Men are on the way. Helicopters. They may not work for Black, but that won’t help you much right now.
Lizzie turned to the torn-open bulkhead and looked back one more time to Kennedy and Travis.
“Sorry, gentlemen… but thank you for all you’ve done. I’m honored. Sorry I have to leave like this — but I’m sure you understand…”
Trying to smile, but wincing instead, she turned back to the bulkhead. Studying her best means of escape, she grunted a little in pain then made her way through the Learjet’s open wound. Slowly picking her way through the jagged breach, she landed on soft-and-spongy forest humus, which surprised Lizzie in its actual emotional impact. Crying out, she carefully straightened up and looked around. Curls of smoke, sputtering electrical shorts, and small fires continued to pop and spit sporadically from the wreckage. The sun was just beginning to peek up above and beyond the cover of trees and distant hills. She turned to watch it, wiping away her tears.
A smile formed across her face.
The pilots were fine.
Travis, Kennedy, and Morris, Kennedy’s bodyguard — all fine.
She knew this.
But the situation… the situation would stick with her forever, and she would miss them — and the others — who died to get her out of there.
Maybe she should start up that school.
What else did she have? She certainly wasn’t going back to her old life, that of a phone psychic. It was about time for her to quit mourning, quit worrying about why me — she knew why me. Start a new life — a new direction.
A new breed.
Yes, she would establish that school… do something good for all of humanity this time, not just unhappy, lonely callers.
She needed to quit hiding from life and put herself out there.
She’d be fine — she knew this, too.
Lizzie looked up ahead, and saw her ghost children. They stood at the edge of the crash site, where the woods were again thick with trees. They smiled, waving for her to hurry.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” she said, making her way toward them. “But, if we’re going to be doing this school thing, we’d better get some ground rules straight,” she said, as she limped from the wreckage. “No more bossing me around, for starters, and tell me the whole story — no more leading me along with all kinds of vague generalities…”
Yes, Mommy, the children said, giggling playfully, as they led Lizzie Gordon through the forest…
And into her new life.