Way Station

WAY STATION

It was QuestCon, New Hampshire’s largest SpecFic convention. Attendees packed the main lounge of Portsmouth’s Holiday Inn, bunching up in clots around tables and chairs and the bar, chatting with old friends, hitting up new ones. Con veterans worked the scene, happy to be among colleagues and friends. Younger, more inexperienced folks bounced nervously about, balancing between worshipful awe and their overwhelming desire to be “noticed” by peers and role models, and amongst them drifted fans asking for signatures, wondering respectfully (most of the time) when their next book or comic book would hit the stores.

It was a full house, everyone busily engaged and enjoying themselves and, Jim Goersky couldn’t help but feel, glancing at him and Gavin Patchett from the corner of their eyes.

“Listen, Franklin,” Gavin snapped into his cell phone, “the distribution sucks and you know it. Why the hell weren’t there more copies of Forever War at the Barnes & Noble here in Portsmouth? They only had five in stock!”

“Careful Gav,” Jim muttered as they navigated through the crowded lounge. “Don’t go poking a tiger with a stick, okay?”

Gavin ignored him and continued. “Hell, Franklin, the answer’s simple. My sales are down because there are NO COPIES OF MY BOOKS, ANYWHERE.”

Jim glanced around as he and Gavin approached the sliding glass doors at the rear of the lounge, which lead to a mezzanine overlooking the hotel’s front parking lot. An embarrassed flush rose past his collar. He nodded and smiled weakly at an acquisitions editor he knew standing at the bar. She gave them a look, and it wasn’t a good look, at all; more like a pitying, you sorry bastard kind of look.

“Gav,” Jim whispered as they weaved past tables and chairs, “remember that joke of yours? That my main job is making sure you don’t act like an ass? You’re kinda not letting me do it.”

Gavin frowned and waved him off. Still complaining, he tugged the sliding glass door open and they stepped out into the biting winter air on the thankfully empty mezzanine.

Brittle wind nipped at Jim’s skin. He turned up his blazer’s collar, stuffed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the cold.

“Listen,” Gavin continued, his tone cutting, “that’s shit and you know it. I never had this distribution problem with the first three books. I showed up at that Barnes & Noble this afternoon and looked like an idiot. My table was almost empty. No, it doesn’t matter how many people actually showed up, it’s the principle of the thing. I’m one of your bestsellers. That’s not how you treat a bestseller.”

They stopped at the mezzanine’s railing. The Holiday Inn sat on a slight hill above the surrounding area and Jim gazed out over the parking lot, past the interstate to the city streets: luminous rivers of headlights, neon signs, and streetlights. The distance muffled the city’s sounds and with just a little effort, Jim could imagine he was looking upon a far off, ethereal world.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? I’m not as focused? What the hell do you mean by that?”

Jim looked at Gavin, who leaned against the mezzanine’s railing, cell phone in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other. Jim tried to remember just how many drinks Gavin had consumed so far and realized he’d lost count hours ago.

“That’s bullshit. You’ve published plenty of science fiction, so marketing mine shouldn’t be . . . not as good as the first two? What the hell? Then why’d you publish it and offer me a contract for two more, you pompous son of a bitch?”

Jim winced. Gavin only acted this way when drinking, and he’d been drinking a lot the past few months. A few more beers than usual with dinner. A glass of whiskey next to his iBook when writing. Gavin’s fully stocked liquor cabinet had seen quite an upswing in use, recently.

Jim shook his head. Truth was, Gavin had reached a critical mass and was barreling toward a threshold. And, like many authors Jim had worked with over the years this meant only one thing: trouble. A train was roaring down the tracks and Gavin seemed pretty content to stand in its path and stare it down like the stubborn son of a bitch that he was.

“Yes I’ve got a Myspace. And a Facebook Fan Page and a Facebook personal page. I’m Linked In, Foursquared and Twittered to hell. Set that all up myself thanks very much, with no help from you.”

“I did that,” Jim whispered, tapping his chest, “me.”

Gavin waved a preoccupied I know, hold on a minute at Jim, scowling. “You’re right. We do need to meet. Jim’ll put together some numbers on how much money I’ve made you the past few years . . . ”

Jim clapped a hand to his forehead and groaned.

Dammit, Gavin. What the hell?

“ . . . and we can discuss how much you want this next book . . . ”

Which you haven’t even started yet, you fucking idiot.

“ . . . and whether or not I’m even going to give it to Hammer-Fiske, or instead maybe approach Titan or TOR, take them up on the deals they’ve been offering for years. See you Tuesday.”

With that, he flipped his phone shut, stuffed it into his jeans pocket and took a deep swig of whiskey. He emptied the glass and met Jim’s gaze defiantly. “What?”

Jim struggled to keep his tone light. “Well. That went well. Hey listen, remember our conversation on the drive up here, about being subtle with Franklin? Just wondering . . . what does the word ‘subtle’ mean to you, exactly?”

Gavin’s face stiffened. “Don’t start, Jim.”

“Hey, hey.” Jim raised his hands. “I’m on your side. You know that. I agree with you, Hammer-Fiske is mishandling this project. But,” he folded his arms, leaning back against the mezzanine’s cold railing, “if you’ll remember, I told you three years ago you’d be better off sending Forever War to either TOR, Titan, Baen or Pocket Books, someone with an established name in science fiction.”

Gavin shook his glass and looked into it, as if searching for answers there. “Hammer-Fiske has published four science fiction novels in the past five years. They should know how the hell to market my science fiction novel.”

Jim sighed.

Seemed he’d been doing that a lot lately because Gavin had done nothing but ignore him. “Those other novels were commercial techno-thrillers, video game and television series tie-ins. Not classic, epic space operas . . . which Forever War is. It’s a great novel. You’ll get no argument from me. But they don’t really know what to do with it, which I warned you about three years ago.”

“Fine. We’ll solve that Tuesday morning, or we’ll bid Franklin and Hammer-Fiske sayonara.”

Jim clucked his teeth with his tongue and looked away into the snow-speckled night, debating what to say next. Apparently, Gavin wasn’t that drunk, because he asked in a tight voice, “Hey. You’re not telling me something. What is it?”

Jim fought with himself for several more seconds, then said regretfully, “Listen. Before you march into the Pinnacle Building Tuesday morning ready to kick ass, you gotta know about the rumors floating around the office.”

Gavin’s eyes narrowed.

And even though Jim knew Gavin wasn’t really dangerous or violent, he couldn’t help but feel a little threatened. “And?”

Jim took a deep breath, released it slowly and said, “Word is Franklin’s pissed about your public bitching.”

“Bitching?” Gavin’s face reddened in the pale glow of the mezzanine’s halogen lights. “But you agreed with me!”

Jim shot Gavin a look, deciding it was time to show some claws of his own. “I do. But you have been bitching, for a long time and very loudly.” He raised an eyebrow. “How about all your blogs, Gavin? All sorts of folks read them. Your fans, casual readers, genre fans, industry-people. My personal favorite? The one entitled, ‘Hammer-Fiske Hammer-Heads and Other Publishing Assholes.’”

Gavin smiled weakly. “Oh, come on. Every author’s gotta complain about his publisher now and then. It’s how we maintain our street cred.”

Jim shrugged. “Well, Franklin’s been reading up and I can’t say he agrees.”

Gavin smirked and patted Jim’s shoulder good-naturedly. “Like I’m really worried. They’ll slap me on the wrist, and then . . . ”

All right, Jim thought. Enough screwing around.

Time to drop the bomb.

“They’re done with you, Gav. They’re calling your bluff before you can even make it. They want to terminate this contract, all your other contracts and sue for breach of contract because they know you haven’t even started the next book you owe them, the next book that’s three months late. They want to wash their hands of you, completely.”

Gavin gaped at him for several wordless seconds until he finally managed, “That’s crazy. I’m one of their bestsellers!”

“But you’re not Stephen King. Or Peter Straub or Dean Koontz or someone with a rabid fan base, like Brian Keene. Not a flashy newcomer, either. You’re a burned-out mid-list author with a big fat drinking problem to boot.”

Gavin’s eyes flashed. “Hey. That’s not fair. You’ve got no right to dig me because I enjoy an occasional drink now and then.”

Jim snorted. He was dangerously close to tripping Gavin’s hot-wire but he didn’t care. “Sure, you enjoy an occasional drink. Occasionally at lunch and dinner. At parties and conventions. While you write. Before and after you write. Before going to bed. Occasionally. At all these occasions, all the time.”

“You’re not my mother, Jim, so stop bitching at me like I’m some snot-nosed–”

“Gavin. Listen.”

Jim’s urgent tone brought Gavin up short. Thinking this could very well be his last chance, Jim plunged ahead. “You’re right. I’m not your mother. I’m your friend and your agent. So not only do I care about you as a person, I care about you as a professional. I don’t want you to throw away your career, and you’re this close,” he held up his thumb and forefinger, spread an inch, “this close.”

He paused, folded his arms and said with as much concern as he could muster, “I want to help, Gav. Let me help. Please.”

A shadow passed over Gavin’s face.

And Jim saw an emotion he’d never seen in Gavin’s eyes before: fear.

Gavin looked away into the night, clenching his glass so tightly his knuckles whitened. “You can’t help, Jim,” he rasped, “no one can.”

Jim sighed. “You’re destroying yourself. You know that, right? You walk into Franklin’s office Tuesday morning with a list of demands, you’re done.”

Still not looking at him, Gavin murmured, “You won’t be there?”

Jim shook his head. He felt sorry in a way, but he was also out of patience. “If I back you on this, I can kiss a lot of my street-cred good-bye.”

“If you were my friend,” Gavin whispered, “you would.”

“I’m sorry, Gav. This is one grenade I’m not jumping on.” He patted Gavin’s shoulder lightly. “Go up to the room and sleep it off. We’ll hash this thing out tomorrow on the ride home. Okay?”

He paused, letting the silence draw out between them, but when Gavin said nothing, he said, “Night, Gav,” turned and walked away.

***

Gavin’s Priusflew along North Portsmouth I-95, far too fast for the icy conditions and his altered state. His eyes itched and the dark road swam before his eyes. His stomach glowed with warm liquor. More than once, he’d caught himself nodding off before lurching awake, heart pounding after he’d almost veered into the median.

This is stupid. Get off the road before you kill yourself or someone else. Go back to the hotel and sleep it off.

This is crazy . . . it’s fucking suicide.

The steering wheel jerked as the right front tire hit a patch of ice. For a second, he felt the vehicle fishtail. Cursing, he lifted his foot off the gas, lightly tapped the brake and brought the car back under control. He sighed and wiped his tired eyes with the heel of his palm.

After Jim had left him on the Holiday Inn’s cold, wind-blown mezzanine, a crippling sense of loathing had overwhelmed him. He was destroying himself, ruining everything he loved about writing. Deep inside, he knew Jim was right. He’d treated everyone miserably, biting the hands that had fed him, stomping on the feet of those who’d helped him into the writing world. However, he’d stumbled on. Drinking, back-biting and burning every single bridge behind him, seemingly hell-bent on self-destruction. It had been that way for so long that he could hardly remember how it was before.

Confronted with this stark truth he’d fled the Con, not speaking to anyone. He’d gotten into his Prius, squealed out of the parking lot, roaring onto the highway, driving . . . nowhere.

Nowhere.

“Screw this,” he mumbled, “I need some music.” He fumbled with the radio, jerking the wheel in the process, causing the Prius to jink back and forth. After several shaky attempts, he finally punched the music on.

Instantly, the loud twang of country music filled the car.

“Oh, hell no.”

He pressed ‘search’ for several seconds until he found some loud but at least tolerable techno. “There,” he grunted, tapping the steering wheel, “that’s a beat you can drive to.”

With the bass pounding he fled down the ice-slicked highway, his ego taking over and pushing aside his self-loathing as he hummed to the music. Twenty minutes away from the Holiday Inn had put distance between him and his fears; making them vague, indistinct.

“When I get back to New York, I’ll cut down the booze,” he chattered as he drove, “get my shit together. I’ll sleep it off, call Franklin, sort him out, or I’ll take my act elsewhere.”

Yeah.

Right.

And where exactly will you take it, dumbass? You heard Jim. He’s not going to back your play and if you hit Franklin with this you’re just gonna get your ass handed to you.

You’re destroying yourself.

And you don’t even care.

“No I’m not,” he muttered, reaching to turn the music up louder, “I’m doing just fine.”

It happened in a heartbeat.

He missed the radio’s volume button.

Leaned forward to try again, his grip on the steering wheel loosening as he rounded a curve to the left that banked slightly, and the car’s front wheels hit a patch of ice. The steering wheel jerked out of Gavin’s numb grip. He grabbed the wheel with both hands, but it was too late.

Panic filled him as the Prius swished back and forth, and in his frenzy he slammed on the brakes. The car shuddered and slowed just for a moment, then the steering wheel jerked to the right, the guardrail looming in the car’s headlights. Gavin twisted the wheel one last time . . .

a heartbeat

a breath

impact

screeching metal, roaring engine, him screaming

His forehead slammed into the air bag exploding from the steering wheel. The world spun away into darkness and as he struggled on the edge of unconsciousness, he realized dimly he’d ricocheted off the guardrail and was now spinning across the highway toward the median.

Tires skidded and gravel crunched on the highway’s shoulder. The engine revved, the car thumpedoff-road and for a moment, he flew.

A final jerk, a rending of metal.

Then . . .

***

. . . darkness. Cloying, suffocating darkness everywhere, so perfect and total that even though he felt his muscles and tendons work and flex, he couldn’t be sure they were really there. The dark felt alive, liquid, pressing against him . . .

swallowing him

And in the distance, whispers uttered secret, unknowable things. He turned but saw nothing, only more darkness. His throat constricted, panic swelling, and his teeth grinding as the whispers came and went, came and went . . .

mene, mene

tekel upharsin

There.

A light.

Flaring in the distance, piercing the darkness around him. He glimpsed only lurching shadows in the flares but as each grew brighter, fragile hope blossomed in his heart.

And then he heard it.

A sliding beyond the dark.

Some awful thing waited for him out there, a beast hungering to tear the skin and muscle off his bones. He shuddered and crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly feeling cold.

A squelching behind him.

He whirled and scanned the dark but saw nothing, his mind struggling like an animal caught in a snare. Unreasoning terror filled him as he imagined some creature circling in the dark, primal fears painting an image of gleaming claws hungry for flesh . . .

Obsidian eyes.

Thick, mucus-slicked hide bristling with tiny hairs.

Soul-plundering teeth clicking in anticipation.

A voice screamed, shattering the silence with syllables that blasted his mind. Gavin clapped his hands over his ears but the booming voice set fire to his thoughts and as he collapsed to his knees, screaming, the words burned themselves onto his brain . . .

MENE, MENE!

TEKEL UPHARSIN!

Everything convulsed: himself, the darkness around him, his insides. He jerked and seized. The light exploded, the voices exploding into a wailing crescendo . . .

MENE!

TEKEL UPHARSIN!

And Gavin collapsed to his knees alongside Route 95, North Portsmouth.

***

He looked up. Intermittent highway lights blazed in the darkness. For several seconds he remained there along the highway, kneeling, disoriented. Memories of that dark place and the thing in the darkness with the screaming voice faded quickly. He’d gotten into an accident, had hit his head—on the damn airbag, of all things—and must have hallucinated it all.

He struggled to breathe, the cold air burning his throat. Gradually, he managed to slow his gasps, taking deep, controlled breaths, and an uneasy calm settled over him.

He looked up and down the highway and saw nothing. Both I-95 North and South faded into snow-speckled darkness. The roads were empty. Not a vehicle in sight.

He looked over his shoulder and saw his wrecked Prius, its front fender crumpled, the driver’s side door hanging open. A pair of crooked, stumbling footprints led to where he knelt at the highway’s shoulder.

He closed his eyes.

And for a moment, he remembered.

Steel shrieking, tires squealing, the steering wheel spinning in his hands, the guardrail jumping out in the car’s headlights, his forehead slamming into the expanding airbag . . .

He shivered, opened his eyes and touched his forehead, feeling a warm bump near the hairline. He winced as he remembered again his head striking the airbag, realizing with a deep chill he was fortunate not to be lying unconscious inside his wrecked Prius, in this cold.

I remember the accident. I remember spinning across the highway into the median. I can’t believe someone coming behind me didn’t hit me . . . but somehow . . . somehow, I got out of the car and stumbled here . . .

A thought struck him. With renewed vigor he stuck his hand into his front jeans pocket, grasping for his cell phone. Relief filled him at the touch of cool plastic . . . a relief that faded when he opened the cell and was greeted with a red X instead of service bars.

No service.

Why the hell not? You can get service everywhere these days.

But there it was, nonetheless. Didn’t matter how high he held it up, waved it, walking back and forth along the snowy highway that red X remained, mocking him and his efforts to find a signal. After about ten minutes more he cursed, snapped the phone shut and stuffed it into his pocket, wondering what the hell he was going to do next.

He looked up to scan the highway again and this time saw what looked like an old, run-down diner on the other side: a vintage roadside joint, a trailer mounted on a cinderblock foundation. Above the diner, an old florescent light flickered Al’s Eats.The place blazed hospitable light; offering him a sliver of hope, but also the slightest touch of dread.

Because he saw no one inside.

Nor did he see any vehicles parked outside. He supposed some could be parked out back, but even so . . . despite the light streaming from its windows, the place seemed empty, dead still.

And an idea tickled the back of his mind that he didn’t remember seeing signs for a diner anywhere along the highway he’d just traveled.

Of course not, dumbass. You were half-drunk and you don’t know the area.

A reasonable explanation, one that didn’t make him feel any better. However, if the place was inexplicably abandoned, light meant electricity, which at least meant warmth and maybe a working phone. Best case scenario the phone worked, the diner’s owner was out back cleaning, and he’d not only call Jim (who’d hopefully forgive him for his behavior and come get him) but he’d also get a burger and fries and a Pepsi. Worst case scenario, if it was empty—which didn’t make sense with the lights on—at least he’d have shelter against the frigid wind.

With that in mind, he moved toward the diner. But as he stepped onto the road, a familiar sensation pulsed through him. He wavered there, on the highway’s edge, staring at the diner, a harsh, guttural voice echoing in his ears . . .

mene, mene

tekel upharsin

He stood there, foot suspended ridiculously like a marionette, cocking his head, listening intently. Part of him strained to hear the dread whisper, convinced it was important that he understood its meaning.

mene . . .

But the voice faded, as well as the strange, dreadful urging. Now he heard nothing, save the empty sighing of a winter’s wind.

A little disgusted at his dread fancy, he snorted and trotted across the highway toward the empty diner.

***

For several seconds after the wooden door screeched shut behind him, Gavin stood in the middle of the diner’s thick, oppressive silence. All the lights blazed with homely warmth, but no one stood behind the counter and no one bused the tables or swept the floors.

“Hello? Anyone home?” He winced at his squeaking voice and swallowed, injecting a heartier tone as he bellowed, “Got a paying customer out here, Al.”

Nothing but silence, and perhaps most disturbing was its quality. There was no echo, as if he’d spoken into a hungry vacuum that swallowed his voice.

He passed a cursory glance around, seeing nothing unusual. A chipped Formica counter ran the diner’s length on one side. Booths with dull, faded red leather cushions lined the other. Along the counter stood evenly spaced stools with red, round cushions that looked like gigantic push-buttons on a toy radio. Behind the counter gaped a rectangular window peering into the kitchen beyond, through which a short order cook could slide plates and trays, presumably ringing a bell and barking out orders in a clichéd, gravelly voice.

He stood on his tiptoes and peered through the rectangular window for a glimpse of the kitchen, but he couldn’t make out much past a row of what looked like silver heavy-duty refrigerators. He gave up and turned toward the entrance, spying an old cash register sitting on a podium next to the door. But when he craned his neck, looking closer, he saw the empty cash drawer hanging out.

He sighed and took a few circular steps, eyeing the place some more. He’d dined in plenty of these joints over the years. He remembered college road trips and more vividly, two years’ worth of weekends in similar establishments as he chased stories all over the Adirondacks for The Utica Times-Herald, covering everything from human interest stories, fall festivals, school board meetings, court cases, and local high school sporting events. He’d been paid a meager freelancer’s rate but he’d been young, fresh from college and working as a sorter at the local can and bottle recycling center, and his weekend reporting trips had been necessary breaths of fresh air. He’d been writing and getting paid for it, which had felt like a small slice of Heaven at the time.

Also, he’d eaten in plenty of these places during his book tour for his first hardcover, Shades of Darkness. He especially remembered one diner just outside Philadelphia, the tour’s last stop. He and Jim (Gavin was one of his first clients) had sat at the counter, eating burgers and fries. The book tour had been a moderate success. He’d hawked considerable copies of his first novel, made some good contacts, and had a good time.

He remembered sitting at the counter of this Philadelphian diner, chatting with Jim, when the diner’s owner—a large, forty-something, barrel-chested man named Hank—approached them and rumbled, “Get ya dessert?”

Jim smiled, shaking his head, Gavin saying, “No, thanks. It was fantastic. Not sure I could fit dessert in, honestly.”

Hank accepted the compliment with a brisk nod. Instead of drifting back to check on other customers, he asked gruffly, “Couldn’t help over-hearin you fellas talkin.” He nodded at Gavin. “You a writer?”

Gavin smiled like a mindless idiot. Damn, he thought to himself, I guess so. Aloud, he’d replied, “I am. Just finished my first book tour, and I’m heading to my hometown to speak at my alma mater’s graduation.”

Hank grunted. “Where’dja grow up?”

“Clifton Heights, New York. In the Adirondacks, north of Utica.”

“Huh. You usta be country folk?”

Gavin smiled at memories of running through the forest causing mischief, diving off his best friend’s lakeside dock and lazy afternoons fishing, catching nothing but sunburns, bug bites and a few puny blue gills for their troubles. “Yes sir, I was.”

“Well now. I heard you boys talkin about novels an all when ya first sat down. I expected ya to be pains in my ass.” He paused, swiped the counter with his dingy towel and pronounced confidently, “Yer not, though. Seem like stand-up guys.”

“Not a pain in the ass,” Gavin remarked, grinning, “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me.”

Jim chuckled. “Don’t look at me. You’ve always been a pain in my ass.”

Gavin popped him lightly on the shoulder. To Hank, he said, “You read much?”

The big man shrugged. “Some. I talk rough, but that’s just my way. I read, yeah.”

Gavin grabbed the satchel sitting on the stool next to him, unzipped it and rummaged through its contents. “What do you read, Hank?”

Hank smiled. “Favor Robert E. Howard an Dashall Hammit myself.”

From his bag Gavin pulled a black and white hardcover book, a picture of an adolescent’s shadowed profile on the cover. “Hank, this was one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten, and you’re a pretty stand-up guy yourself . . . ” he held out the novel to the short-order cook, “I’d like you to have this. It’s my last copy, and though it’s not Howard or Hammit, I think you’ll find enough action in here to suit you.”

Hank accepted the book with an air of rustic grace. “That’s good of ya. I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.” He laid the book on the counter. “Mind signin it?”

“No problem.” Gavin snagged a pen from his shirt pocket, opened the book to its first page and dictated while he wrote, “‘To Hank—best cook in Pennsylvania, who called me ‘not a pain in the ass.’” He signed his name with a flourish and returned the book to the cook.

Hank accepted it almost reverently. “That’s awfully good of ya, sir.” He looked at the book with a grin and then said, “You come back through anytime ya want. Dinner’s on the house.” He nodded, tucked the book under his arm and moved toward his other guests.

And in that abandoned diner, Gavin was still reminiscing on the memory when his eyes fell on the hardcover book sitting on the empty front counter.

***

His heart stuttered.

It wasn’t really a book. It only looked like one in the dark, and . . .

He frowned. It was getting dark. Odd, because moments ago the diner blazed with light. As he looked around he realized with cold shock that it had gotten much darker than it had been minutes before, the diner’s lights dimming, as if on the verge of blacking out entirely.

He looked back at the book on the counter.

No, that’s stupid. It’s not a book. It’s an account register; a ledger . . . but it’s not a book, no way.

But as he eased closer to the counter he couldn’t deny what he saw. The object looked just the right size for a hardcover novel. He squinted, trying to make out the author’s name or the book’s title . . .

No.

No, his stubborn mind protested, it can’t be. But as he moved closer, his unbelieving eyes discerned an adolescent boy’s gray profile, features shrouded by darkness, and printed across the bottom was: Gavin Patchett.

One of the story’s main protagonists, Michael Lockenstein, was an autistic savant whose prophetic visions had become entangled in a serial murder case. Hence the book’s title—Shades of Darkness—because it described the different shades of darkness the boy had endured his entire life.

His first novel.

And deeply personal, based in part on an autistic boy he’d known growing up. While he’d written it, he’d truly felt alive, as though he’d been accomplishing something important, something real. He’d enjoyed writing all his novels well enough but he hadn’t felt the same since that first one, like his writing was making a difference.

He lifted a trembling hand.

And with an odd combination of loathing and need he flicked open the book’s cover, revealing the inscription: To Hank—best cook in Pennsylvania, who called me ‘not a pain in the ass’.

He jerked back. “What the hell?”

Something scraped the floor behind him.

A footstep, approaching.

Gavin spun and saw a fifteen-year-old boy standing about ten feet away, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt with a checkered red and black flannel over it. He wore an open winter jacket and his feet sported ragged, mud-splattered Nikes. The boy’s hands were jammed into his pockets. Unruly brown hair spilled across his forehead and clear blue eyes pierced Gavin with a disconcerting stare.

“All right,” Gavin rasped, “who the hell are you?”

The boy remained silent for several seconds, staring at him with those burning blue eyes until he finally said, “You know who I am.”

Gavin stared, speechless, a dread kind of understanding tickling the back of his mind . . . but he pushed it away. He didn’t believe it. He wouldn’t believe it.

There was just no way.

“Hell I do. Maybe you look a little like . . . but no. Fuck no. I don’t care what you say, you’re NOT him.”

The boy shrugged, as if his disbelief meant nothing. “But I AM a messenger, here to remind you of things. Important things.”

Suddenly, the situation was too bizarre for Gavin to swallow anymore: an empty diner on an empty highway, a book that couldn’t be here, this boy (who couldn’t be who he looked like, couldn’t be) glaring at him like he was the child, those voices lingering at the edge of his mind . . .

mene, mene

tekel, upharsin

He shook his head. “What the hell are you talking about? Never mind. I don’t care. What I want is to get out of here, flag down a cop or a trucker or someone and . . . ”

He took a step forward.

And pain twisted in his chest, cut by a phantom, burning knife. He doubled over and convulsed as a terrible vibration pulsed through him, jolting him to the bone.

The sensation passed.

He collapsed to his knees, gagging, drooling through clenched teeth.

“You don’t understand,” the boy remarked calmly. “There are no police, no cars to flag down here. There’s only you, I and the Other.”

An instinctual kind of panic crept along the edge of Gavin’s thoughts. He looked up at the strange boy and croaked, “What do you mean? Where are we?”

The boy tilted his head, his face blank, his eyes unfeeling. “An in-between place. A crack between worlds. A way station, of sorts.”

Gavin loathed his next words but that hysterical panic was crawling ever closer. “What are you saying? Is this . . . ”

“Hell?” The boy’s eyes hardened, looking inexplicably old and ancient. “A place you couldn’t possibly begin to fathom. Especially considering you don’t believe it exists.”

It was desperately sad, some part of Gavin realized, that his only defense was petulant sarcasm. “C’mon. I’m a midlist genre author. Pretty sure I know what hell is.”

Almost instantly another burning seizure slammed him against the floor, jerking his arms and legs as he kicked and flailed in agony. It passed as quickly as before, and he collapsed face-first, hacking and coughing. His arms weak and rubbery, somehow he crawled onto his knees and elbows, and in between ragged gasps he croaked, “So. Am . . . am I dead? Is . . . is that it?”

The boy drew himself up and clasped his hands behind him, as a lecturing professor might. “No. Not yet.”

Gavin’s response was cut off as he shrieked to another muscle-shaking jolt that throttled his spine while he flopped and kicked and jerked.

“You’re here because you need to choose.”

The seizure released him. Pressing his forehead into the diner’s cool floor, he mumbled, “Choose? Choose what? What the hell are you talking about?”

He breathed.

And amazingly enough, the shock didn’t return, so he lurched upright, sat back on his haunches and wiped his mouth on his forearm. “What is this? Some shitty, low budget version of A Christmas Carol?”

A burning look from the boy and all his sarcasm died. “You’re here to decide your destiny, Gavin Patchett.”

Gavin scowled despite the lingering pain in his guts. “Destiny? I don’t have a destiny. I’m a writer. A genre writer.” He wiped his mouth on his arm again. “No destiny here. Sorry.”

The boy remained still, his blue eyes boring into Gavin’s. “You will choose today, Gavin Patchett, what you will serve: Order or Chaos. Light or Dark. Purpose . . . or the Other.”

Gavin shook his head. “Other? What ‘Other?’” He staggered to his feet, but even though he towered over the kid, he felt dwarfed by an incomprehensible presence and regarded the boy warily.

The boy’s eyes pulsed. “You know the Other. You’ve served It most of your adult life. But now It wants more. It wants you as Its Herald.”

Ludicrous. The stuff of cheap horror flicks or badly written End Times novels. However, the boy’s words struck a curious resonance in him, and a memory surfaced, of a massive and inhuman thing slithering in the dark . . .

mene, mene

tekel upharsin

And that’s when he heard it.

A liquid flopping. He whirled, eyes searching the dimness . . . as something squelched wetly behind the counter. He leapt back, fearing It would come after him, even though he had no idea what It was.

The slithering sounds swelled, accompanied once more by that throbbing voice, which evoked primordial fears as each unintelligible syllable pounded against Gavin’s brain, over and over . . .

mene, mene, tekel upsahrin, mene, mene . . .

“What is that?”

The words slammed into him, turning his insides to jelly. He whirled on the boy, desperately shouting, “What is that?”

The boy stood calm and still, and somehow his voice echoed above the chanting. “That’s the Other. It has many names. The Destroyer of Worlds. Eater of Light. Crawling Chaos.”

Ice-cold fear filled his belly and his bladder twitched. “What does it want?”

“It wants to use you. You have a gift It desires above all else and It wants to make you Its Herald.”

Still holding his hands over his ears—which didn’t matter, because that voice kept echoing over and over, inside his head—Gavin shouted, “Herald for what?”

The boy’s eyes glowed with blue fire, his countenance transformed into something unearthly. “The coming destruction of all there is.”

“Why? Why me?”

The boy cocked his head, frowning. “You’re a writer. One who turns life into fiction, and fiction into life. What’s spawned through your pen becomes life, comes from life. But you’ve forsaken your destiny, leaving yourself open to the Other’s designs.”

“What are you talking about? What destiny?”

The boy lifted his chin and gazed at him, daring a refutation of his claims. “To be a Witness. A Seer. An Oracle of things to come. You must chronicle these things for the Guardian, not the Other, so the Guardian can protect the Threshold, so he will know how.”

“The Threshold? The Guardian? Who the hell is . . . this is crazy! I’m a writer. I write fiction! I make shit up! None of it’s real! None of it!”

The boy’s voice dropped into a whisper that shook Gavin’s insides. “It is real. All of it. So is everything else you are meant to write . . . if you choose to.”

No.

It wasn’t possible. Couldn’t be.

A terrible understanding inside of him, however, told him it was.

“No,” he whispered, not sure where his words came from, “please. I can’t. I just can’t. It’s too hard. I’m too afraid. I tried to write about you once before, and I just can’t . . . I can’t.”

The boy shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, Gavin Patchett. Because it’s time.

“You must choose.”

A sharp lashing cut the air.

Something thick and fleshy snagged Gavin’s ankle and yanked his feet out from underneath him. He slammed down head-first, chin and chest hitting the floor. Salty blood filled his mouth as his teeth dug into his tongue.

And that voice chanted over and over . . .

mene, mene

tekel, upharsin

Close to screaming, Gavin looked over his shoulder at the thing, the tentacle wrapped around his ankle. A vision borne of nightmares, it throbbed and writhed with a muscular pulse. A dark, mottled green-brown, its hide bristled with thousands of tiny hairs, and as the tentacle tightened around his ankle, those hairs unbelievably pierced his pants and dug into his skin.

And at the tentacle’s end, he saw curved hulks defying description, lined with rows of mad, glittering alien eyes. Its form continuously shifted as tentacles coiled and writhed above It in a serpentine halo.

Another tentacle whipped at him and Gavin cried out as it wrapped around his knee, hairs digging into his skin like rows of needle-sharp teeth, and like a fisherman tired of playing with its catch, It heaved and yanked Gavin toward It. He screamed, high and shrill, hands flailing along the floor, reaching, grabbing for anything . . .

. . . and he snagged the base of the cash register’s stand. Even as the strain in his knees and hips intensified, somehow he wrapped his arms around the stand’s base, anchoring himself.

Desperately he looked up and there was the boy, standing only a few feet from him, hands shoved into his pockets, his blue gaze cold and remote.

“Please! Please . . . help me!”

The boy raised an eyebrow. “Will you write what you see? Will you be a Witness for The Guardian, so he may protect The Threshold?”

He heard a rustling, dry sound, like a snake sliding through autumn leaves, and Gavin realized yet another fleshy arm was hurtling toward him. He kicked out with mad fright, his heart throbbing with both glee and disgust as his foot knocked away something hard and leathery. “Whatever! Just take me away . . . please!”

The boy squatted face to face with him, blue eyes pulsing. “Have a care,” he warned, “pledging your fealty will save you from ruination; but it won’t save you from death or suffering. There is no ‘safe path’ to choose.”

“I don’t understand,” Gavin whimpered. He heard more wriggling and squirming but another kick met only air as a third tentacle wrapped around his thigh. His shoulders creaked with the increasing strain and he reached deep inside, willing himself to hold on . . .

But he couldn’t.

Arms shaking, he looked at the boy, his vision fading, dimming at the edges. “What do you want me to do?”

The boy gazed at him, his blue eyes filling Gavin with warmth. “Your gift is your writing. Your tool. Your power.”

mene, mene! tekel upharsin!

And those horrible tentacles pulled harder. Terror suffused him as his fingers slipped on the worn edges of the podium. “What if I can’t?”

The boy sat back on his heels, the warmth fading from his eyes. “Others will write,” he responded tonelessly, “and you’ll be lost.

“You must choose.”

Gavin opened his mouth but before he could speak or even breathe It tore him loose with a mighty jerk. Pain blazed up his legs, through his joints, his muscles on fire, but none of that mattered as he flew forever backward while the pain rose in his chest and exploded there, radiating outward through him as the darkness swallowed him whole . . .

***

“Clear!”

Pain.

Pain blazing through his body, exploding in his chest, radiating outward, jerking him in spasms like before, back there, only different somehow . . .

“We’ve got him! Heartbeat, very weak . . . ”

And the voices faded into an indecipherable hiss as his head lolled on a rubbery neck. He lay flat on his back, was rushing forward . . .

ambulance

. . . a droning, shrill cry waxing and waning, coming and going . . .

siren

. . . and before everything faded away to a blessedly empty, weightless black he saw an EMT lean over him, a man whose blue eyes blazed with power and strength and warmth . . .

***

“ . . . I said, you’re pretty damn lucky, y’know?”

Gavin blinked rapidly.

Swallowing, feeling lightheaded and weak. He tried to move his legs and fear spiked his heart when he felt them restricted, bound . . .

he cried out as it wrapped around his knee

. . . and the world slowly coalesced around him. He was reclining in a hospital bed, staring out the window as snowflakes fell endlessly from a whitish-gray sky.

He swallowed again.

His abdomen ached dully, the pain blunted by meds but still throbbing insistently. Small cuts and abrasions on his cheeks and forehead stung. His head pounded, echoing his heartbeat, and though he knew it to be fancy, he thought he felt two ghostly, burning patches on his chest.

clear!

“Hey. Gavin. You with me?”

That was Jim. He’d been talking for a while, but the fatigue and the drugs had left Gavin fuzzy. Reluctantly, he turned his attention from the snow’s mesmerizing descent to his agent’s worried face. “Sorry? I spaced out for a bit.”

“I said you’re pretty lucky that old guy in the truck showed up when he did. You were only out there for about ten minutes. Any longer, you probably would’ve bled to death.”

Gavin shook his head and looked away, his eyes drawn back to the wintry scene outside. “Ten minutes,” he whispered, seeing fragmented images of an elderly man with amazingly blue, compassionate eyes and an EMT on the ambulance with the same blue eyes, interwoven with other, nightmarish images he had no words for. “Felt like a lifetime.”

Jim nodded as he leaned against the wall. “Very well could’ve been. They lost you on the way here, you know. Heart just quit for some reason. Stopped, total flat line. Had to shock you a few times before they got you back, I guess.”

clear!

Blazing, blinding pain, jerking through him.

“And you’re lucky your kidneys were only bruised. At first, the doctors thought they’d both been lacerated, and they thought you’d be on dialysis for life.” Jim smiled wryly. “Can you imagine that? Carrying around a piss bag for the next twenty years?”

Gavin snorted, still looking outside. “Only bruised, huh?”

“Yeah. Someone must have read the CT scans wrong because when they did a laparoscopy for a closer look, everything checked out.” Jim shrugged. “Like I said, pretty lucky.”

“Yeah.”

They remained silent for several moments, until Jim finally stirred and said, “Listen, I talked to Franklin, and he says not to worry about–”

“I’m an ass,” Gavin said.

“What’s that?”

Gavin turned and met Jim’s gaze, marshaling what little courage he had left. “I’ve acted pretty miserably lately, haven’t I? Drinking too much. Bitching like an ungrateful bastard.”

Jim shrugged, his expression neutral. “Everyone hits a bad patch now and then.”

Gavin swallowed and forced himself not to turn away. “Call Franklin. Tell him I screwed up. Tell him I’ll stop my complaining, that I’ll try to make it right, no matter what.”

Jim smiled faintly. “I’ll tell him, Gav. He’ll be glad to hear it.” He paused, then added, “We’ll work it out. Promise.”

He glanced at his watch. “Woa. I’ve gotta run back to the hotel, shoot off about a dozen emails.” He looked back at him with such concern, Gavin instantly felt horrible for the way he’d treated Jim the night before. “You’ll be all right for a bit?”

Gavin waved limply. “I’m fine.”

Jim moved past the foot of the bed and then abruptly checked himself, remembering something. “Almost forgot. When the EMTs brought you into the OR you were clutching these as if your life depended on it. They had to pry them from your fingers, so I figured they were important and you’d want them.”

He withdrew the objects from under his arm and handed them to Gavin, who accepted them wordlessly; afraid his pounding heart might trigger the nurse-call alarm. “Hang tight until I get back.” He flipped Gavin a jaunty salute and left the room.

Gavin stared for several seconds at what he held. The topmost object was a marble black and white composition book. He’d written the bulk of Shades of Darkness in notebooks like it; had even started writing its sequel in one before pitching it and moving on to other stories he’d thought more marketable at the time.

Carefully, his hand trembling, he shifted the objects, and when he saw the other thing—a hardcover novel—his heart stuttered, because in his hands he held a slightly soiled, faded copy of Shades of Darkness. His mind rebelled against the implications, because he knew without a shadow of a doubt the only copy he owned was at home in his office, but here it was, nonetheless.

He breathed once.

Waited for an interminable moment, then flipped the cover open to find the following: To Hank . . .

Gavin slammed it shut.

Tossed the book onto the table next to him like it was a ticking bomb. Sucking in deep gulps of air, he mumbled, “No way. It’s not possible. There’s no way.”

And yet, two opposing refrains echoed in his mind . . .

mene, mene, tekel upharsin

you’re here to decide your destiny

Gavin reached out and grabbed the standard hospital pen that all rooms came amply supplied with. He picked up the notebook he’d dropped into his lap and opened it to the sight of a white, pure, empty page. He clicked the pen, waited for a moment . . .

And began to write.

And he wrote into the night, as the bitter wind howled and beat against his hospital room window.