Dark Destiny (18 page)

Tuesday, 10:59 pm (Purgatorium)

Jared knew where he was. He didn’t know how he knew, but a sense of foreboding wrapped itself around him. He felt it everywhere, in the mangled shells of buildings, the gaping rifts in the sidewalk: This was Purgatorium, a world between worlds, a place where horror met wonder, where the living world dissipated into something unnatural and unknown.

A crevice cut across the entire length of the street he walked on. He got closer, peered in, curious to see what might be below, but the darkness was infinite; an abyss, going on forever. He stepped back from the edge and stared at the dark sky above him. So far, he had been in Purgatorium for over twenty-four hours and not once had the sun come out. It was perpetually dark. The only source of light, it seemed, was the ever-changing moon.

Of course, there was always some sort of fire somewhere casting a ruddy glow over the desolation, moon or no. A pile of garbage sitting on the broken sidewalk could spontaneously combust into flames. Overturned cars could sit smoldering, the flames never seeming to lack for oxygen in spite of the dank air. The fires didn’t seem to follow the normal rules of chemistry. It was like the whole place was haunted. Already, he’d grown accustomed to seeing buildings completely engulfed in flames. Other than that, it was a never-ending world of darkness. He spent the first couple of hours searching for Sara, but realized she wasn’t here. It was impossible for somebody that sweet to be in a place this awful. She must have passed into the Light.

The Light
, Jared repeated in his head. A place that once had welcomed him as well. At the moment of his death, the Tunnel of Light had appeared before him.

He’d seen it, and what’s more, he’d felt it. He’d felt the knowledge that he was being invited to move onto the next stage of . . . something. Life? Death? Jared didn’t know. But somehow—he couldn’t say exactly how—he’d missed that opportunity. Or rather, it had been taken from him, and now he was here, in this desolate place, a place that seemed to want to play with him, tease him, or taunt him.

This place, though decrepit and ugly, was almost a mirror image of the living world. But not quite. After realizing Sara wasn’t here, he’d tried to find his way to his own house, that is if he still had a house to go to in this place. He’d wanted to see his sister, though he was pretty sure there’d have been no way for him to communicate with her, but still . . . He thought maybe he’d be closer to her somewhere familiar, somewhere they both belonged. He’d almost wished she were with him, but he’d had second thoughts almost right away. No, he didn’t want his sister anywhere near here. Still, he’d set out to find their home and got his first hint of how twisted this place was. Literally. Somehow he’d gotten turned around and ended back in the alley he’d died in. Knowing that he must have made some sort of mistake, he tried getting to his house a few more times. Every time he tried, he ended up in the same alley. He thought he was being punished, as if this place could somehow sense his thoughts and was eager to prevent him from receiving any satisfaction in finding his home. At first, it had allowed him to wander the streets looking for Sara, but as soon as he tried to find Hope, or home, he was led—through growing frustration and desperation—back to the alley.

He fell into a slump. Sitting on the cold ground with his back against the brick wall, he stared at the bakery he’d come out of minutes before his death. The large glass front, opaque from all the dirt and grease, had numerous cracks running through it. The rotted wooden door hung loosely in its frame, one kick shy of shattering to pieces. What little light he could see through the dirty glass flickered, constantly shifting the shadows. Every few seconds, a pale white mist flowed out from under the rotted door, fading away seconds later.

He decided to ignore the strange mist and think over what had happened—the way in which he’d lived his life up to and including the day of his death.

His life hadn’t started out well. Not by a long shot. He’d come to terms with things in his own way. Yes, he’d beaten up people, but they’d all been bullies. They all deserved it. Maybe not everyone would agree with his methods, but he liked himself.

No regrets.

“Jared?” Hope’s voice, or an echo of it maybe, came from somewhere off in the distant.

“Hope?” he called out, jumping to his feet.

What he found wasn’t exactly what he expected. She was in a corner of the alley with a dense fog writhing behind her. There was a bright light coming out of the fog, illuminating the back of her head. Clearly, this was his imagination playing tricks on him. It was impossible for her to be here.

She wasn’t dead,
was she
?

He ran towards her. “Hope, what are you doing here?”

She stood in front of him, emotionless, staring at the ground. Slowly, her face crept up to make eye contact with him. Dead, cold eyes. No light behind them.

“I saw mom,” she said.

The statement rattled him. Jared took a step back, shaking his head. “What? But, she’s
dead
. How did you
—
” But he didn’t finish his question. Hope faded away into mist, and the fog behind her cleared.

He exhaled a heavy breath.

This place. This
freaking
place!
It messed with him. He knew it, though he didn’t understand why.
What’s the point?

The only possible explanation he could think of was this warped place wanted either to help him work out his issues or make him go insane.

Sebastian needed to hurry and get him out of here. This was
his
fault after all, right?

In the meantime, he needed to study his new environment more. If the place wanted to play games with him, he needed to learn the rules. If he knew the rules, it would help him determine what his next step should be.

He jumped slightly as a sound exploded in the atmosphere above, like a jet breaking the sound barrier.

This is new. Jets in a place like this? In a creepy post-apocalyptic city?

Jets meant life. So far, he hadn’t seen a hint of working technology, only the deadened remains of the city he used to know. He’d seen no sign of commercial power other than a flickering streetlight or blinking stop lights. Yet, this sounded like a jet. Whatever it was, the sound grew louder.

Jared looked up just in time. Something was flying high in the starlit sky, leaving a pale, cloudy trail behind it. But it wasn’t a jet. Not a jet that Jared had ever seen before. It was shaped like a person.
Couldn’t have been.
Nobody can fly . . .

But he couldn’t pretend. He knew he’d seen a tall, muscular person. It had looked evil, dark, and powerful. Rather than being frightened, Jared wanted to see it again. That thing could do some damage.

“What was that?” he asked out loud, not expecting an answer.

“A Shade,” spoke a low, rough voice.

Jared stared toward the source of the voice.

A raggedy, shabby-looking zombie stared back from the entrance of the alley. He wore an old, torn up suit and one boot.
Had this zombie just answered his question? That didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense anymore.

But still, Jared couldn’t deny that a zombie was standing here in front of him and somehow, against all logic, his brain was telling him that this was okay.

The zombie leaned against the cold brick wall, arms crossed, with a lit cigarette in his hand.

“You can talk?” Jared asked.

The zombie shrugged. “Can’t you?”

“But, you’re dead,” Jared pointed out.

“So are you,” replied the zombie as he took a puff from his cigarette.

Touché
. That was one of his favorite words. Used it one hundred and fifty two times the first day he heard it.

The zombie tossed the cigarette onto the ground and extinguished it with his bare, rotting foot. Jared noticed he was missing a toe or two.

Jared pointed to the zombie’s booted foot. “Why didn’t you use the boot?”

“I wanted to use my foot.”

“Touché,” Jared replied.

“What?” the zombie said with a lost look in his eyes. Finally, he said. “I don’t know, I feel naked with shoes. Besides, you know how hard it is to get boots around here?”

Jared hadn’t thought about that. What exactly did the “dead” do when they were dead? Did they have communities?

“So, it’s not possible to get things around here?” Jared asked, examining his hands. The scars on his knuckles seemed to have faded.

“Well, there is the White Market,” the zombie answered. “But most
Lesser Souls
are not allowed in the White Market.”

“Lesser Souls?” Jared asked, “I’m a Lesser Soul?”

“Of course. What’d you think you were?”

Scratching his temple, Jared said, “Well, I don’t know. Dead, I guess. Why does everything have titles? And what’s the White Market?”

“Too many questions,” the zombie said, waving his hand dismissively. “Let me ask
you
a question now.”

Jared shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, okay.”

“Do you know how Moses made tea?”

Feeling somewhat confused, Jared responded, “No?”

“Hebrew it,” the zombie said with a large, toothy grin.

Jared’s expression fell flat.

Tuesday, 11:05 pm (Purgatorium)

Four minutes later, Jared found himself wandering down the street with Mr. Zombie. That’s what Jared had decided to call him. Three minutes prior, he’d asked him what his name was but apparently, Mr. Zombie had been here so long he’d forgotten.

“Yeah, all I remember about my life, before I bit it, was I used to be a comedian. I mean, I guess you could already tell, right?” said Mr. Zombie.

“Of course,” Jared replied, deadpan.

That’s when he noticed Mr. Zombie had mysteriously found another cigarette from somewhere. He puffed on it as they walked.

Jared tried not to grimace as he took in Mr. Zombie’s rotting cheeks.

“So,” he asked, hesitant, not wanting to insult his new friend, “are you a zombie?”

Mr. Zombie blew out a puff of smoke and gawked at Jared. “What? A zombie? No, man. What are you talking about? Zombie!”

He flicked ashes on the ground and took another puff. “Do I look like I eat brains to you? Zombie? Please. I’m a vegetarian.”

Jared flashed Mr. Zombie a grin. “I didn’t mean to offend. I mean, you look kind of, well, zombie-like.”

“Well, it’s not my fault if I’m rotting a little. I mean, check it out. The closer you are to the Light, the less decay you have. But when you really start to decompose, that’s when you
really
have some soul searching to do, catch my drift? Think of it as a physical reminder of where you are on the ‘Light’ scale.” Mr. Zombie gestured at himself. “As you can see, I have a bit to go.”

“Why are we considered Lesser Souls?”

Mr. Zombie took a long drag from his cigarette, then exhaled ash-gray mist. “It’s what we are. There’s a certain order or ladder of Souls here, each one more powerful as they go up the chain. Lesser Souls like us are at the bottom rung. If it makes you feel better, call it a pyramid. I like pyramids. They have points at the top.”

“Okay.” Jared considered this a few moments, wondering how you go about climbing the ladder. “Last question,” Jared said, pointing at Mr. Zombie for a second. “What is a Shade?”

They turned down an alley where a horde of non-zombies—Lesser Souls, Jared supposed was the correct term—was formed into a ring.

After putting his arm around Jared’s shoulder, Mr. Zombie pointed towards the horde. “That—the big one there—is a Shade.”

A moment later, the group parted to reveal a fight about to start. In the middle of the horde was a large muscular figure who stood about seven feet tall. He wore a black canvas duster that almost fell to his ankles. It looked old, like something you’d see in a museum, or something cowboys would have worn in the Wild West. Surely it was a costume. But it looked authentic. How long had this guy been here?

The duster had torn edges falling from the shoulders, the sleeves having been ripped off at some point. A white flame tattoo stood out against his dark skin. It snaked its way out of his shirt and up his neck, ending at his lower lip. His forearms and hands were covered in the same white flame tattoos. They complemented his pure white eyes. On his head, he wore a black, old-fashioned planter’s hat, something like an old undertaker would wear.

“They call him Obsidian,” Mr. Zombie told Jared, his tone casual. “I think it’s because of the staff.”

Jared shot a glance at the Shade’s hands. A dull, black staff that seemed to have been carved out of a rock, rested in his hand. Along the length of the staff were strange, perhaps ritualistic, carvings that glowed crimson and burned brighter, then darker, every few seconds, like some evil heartbeat.

“What’s with the tattoos?” Jared asked.

“They represent his rank.” Mr. Zombie, once again, had a fresh cigarette between his lips. Jared hadn’t seen him light it.