Tearing The Shroud (5 page)

A shrill scream rose from the front room of the house. The scream tapered off, paused as if to draw a breath, and started again.

‘That’s Mother! I’ve got to help her.’ Jonas leaped up and started across the yard. ‘I’ll be right back,’ he called over his shoulder then disappeared through the flaming portal that was once the front door.

Justus knew he should have stopped his brother, that it was impossible to make it back out with their mother. But he also knew he would have done the same thing. His mind fogged with pain. Time passed. Minutes? Seconds? The small hope of his brother’s return dwindled with each passing moment. It had been too long. His family was dead, they must be. Yet, he kept his eyes riveted to the door. Shadows moved in the flames. Someone was coming out.

Jonas stepped through the crumbling, flaming skeleton of the house with someone held in his arms but something didn’t look right. Then he recognized what it was — both Jonas and his mother were in flames. Jonas somehow managed to get within ten feet of Justus before he staggered and fell to one side. Still clutching the form of their dead mother, both their bodies continued to burn. Justus rolled onto his right side in his effort to reach them, but the pain was too great to do anything more. He lay there on his side, as they were on theirs, Jonas’ head just above his mother’s, both of their faces in clear view. He tried to look away, to shut his eyes, but couldn’t help staring in a mix of horror and fascination at what transpired before him.

His mother’s skin was already starting to blacken and crack, but his brother’s seemed to be melting. His features were running like wax, the fat popping and sizzling, finally joining his mother’s in a macabre death mask that looked strangely like a grin. As sanity slipped from his grasp, Justus smiled.
They’d posed for the family portrait the same way.
In a quieter part of his mind, a litany started, trying to hold back the darkness that threatened to overwhelm it.
This would not happen to him. He was never going to die, never going to die, never going to die, never going...

A Rescue

When they finally made it through to their neighbor’s home, a scene of terrible destruction met Ezra and his sons. The most beautiful holding in the land lay in ruin. They entered the gate and saw bodies by the cistern. Two of them, charred beyond recognition and another, not burnt but surely dead. He covered his mouth with his kerchief, fighting back the impulse to vomit.

‘Looks like none of them made it, boys.’

‘Yeah, Da, I guess not,’ his oldest son replied. ‘Wish we could’a got here sooner.’

The youngest and most curious of the brothers dismounted. Unbothered by the sight, he walked nearer to the bodies than the rest of them cared to. As he did, he spoke up, ‘Da, I think you may be wrong. This one, I think it’s Justus, is still breathing.’

Ezra jumped off his horse and ran over. ‘Looks like you’re right, boy,’ he said, from Justus’ side. ‘Fetch me the water.’ The youngest returned with it, while his brother kept his distance. Ezra spoke to them with wonder, ‘Will you look at that, three days here and he’s tryin’ to speak.’ He took the water skin from his son and dribbled some into the corner of Justus’ mouth.

‘What’s he sayin’, Da?’ the oldest asked.

‘I’m not sure.’ Ezra lowered his ear to Justus’ lips, listening carefully. ‘Sounds like, ‘Never going to die.’

The Choosing

Justus was bedridden, in constant agony, for two Lunos cycles and a sevenday. He refused to speak about his ordeal, or the loss of his family. The last attempt, made by Ezra’s wife Pricilla, ended with him screeching as she backed wide-eyed from the room. ‘They’re burnt meat. Do you know what that smells like? Sunday
roast.
Don’t — speak — of — it. Never, do you hear me? Never!’

The Healer who treated him was the best in the Valley, and had traveled for two days to reach the holding where Justus lay swimming in fever. Ezra kept messenger birds and was able to dispatch one to summon the Healer quickly. This was a fact that Ezra brought to Justus’ attention often during his convalescence.

He would come to ‘see how the lad was coming along,’ and then proceed to fawn over him like he was royalty. At first, such deference embarrassed Justus. Then it became tiresome. Eventually, Justus was disgusted each time Ezra would start up. He was like a sniveling child waiting for a piece of candy. A moment of clarity came to him one day as Ezra stood at the foot of his bed with his eyes meekly directed at the floor and his hat twisted in his hands.
He’s approaching me with
,
what? Anticipation? Supplication?
He sensed that he had some sort of power over the man, but couldn’t figure out why. After dismissing Ezra with a wave of his hand, he put the matter to serious thought.
They wanted something. But what could
he
possibly offer? After all, he wasn’t even into his teen years yet. A lad to most, and a child to many. A child with no family, an orphan. Not just an orphan; the sole survivor of his family. Sole survivor. Sole inheritor.

That was it! His father was rich. Everyone in the Greater Valley knew that. They also knew his family had more than just land and cattle. In his youth, Justus’ father had helped settle the remote section of the Valley where their holding lay, and he’d mined gold from it. The vein had eventually run out, but not before his father accumulated a vast fortune, enough to make his grandchildren seven generations later very rich men. Justus was the sole heir. Furthermore, only he knew where the gold was stored; only he had access to it.

His parents had been determined that their boys should never want for anything, but also that they shouldn’t feel entitled. They kept their studies up, helped with the chores, tended the cattle, and worked maintaining the crops. Justus had never considered the importance of his family’s wealth. Now, quite simply, he had.

During his ordeal, something had broken within Justus, something beyond flesh and bones. It was a part of himself he didn’t know existed. Now, that dark twisted thing rose up and filled his mind. The room chilled and his thoughts came to him as if someone whispered in his ear.

Gold carries power.

They want it...the power...the gold.

Ezra practically drools for it.

Justus sniffed and shook his head muttering, ‘What a complete simpleton. He helped me out expecting to take what’s rightfully mine.’

The chilling voice in him caressed the idea.

Let him believe it — long for it.

Make him grovel.

It will be...fun...yes, so much fun.

Part of him recoiled but the temptation was too much to resist.

Power,
the voice whispered.
Over their lives...or deaths.

I could control death?

Yes...death...the ultimate form of control.

Theirs, and even...

‘
My own,’ Justus whispered.

He closed his eyes and imagined the possibilities. A smile crept to the corners of his mouth as he envisioned himself the master of every moment, with those around him doing his bidding like puppets on strings. Pleasure at the idea warmed him as the chill left the room, its task complete. Slowly, over the course of his healing, the idea took root and blossomed. Justus set his feet on the path he would follow for the rest of his life. A life that he planned would continue for a long, long time.

Chapter 4

Fall 1984
San Diego, California

They maneuvered Vincent’s 1976 Toyota Celica through the narrow streets of Old Town, looking for a parking spot. The area was a major tourist draw, with restaurants and shops, but small homes still nestled among them. The streets worked well in 1830, but the founders never envisioned how things might be a hundred years later. The thick fog sat here, contained by the surrounding hills like soup in a cauldron. Flea pointed, and Vincent pulled down a narrower side street. They finally found a spot between an old Studebaker and a new Mustang.

‘Boy, it’s a good thing this car’s small,’ Flea said as he eyed the minuscule opening.

‘And my driving skills are so stellar,’ Vincent said. ‘Watch this.’ He slipped the Toyota in on the first try.

‘How do you
do
that?’

‘Well, it’s a simple matter of positioning the car correctly — ’

‘Vincent, it was a rhetorical question.’

Vincent bit back a grin. ‘Rhetorical huh? Is this big word day?’

Flea laughed. ‘Come on, it’s just around the corner.’ He unfolded himself from the car and waited as Vincent locked it. ‘Just up here.’

They were only able to see a short distance into the darkness. The sidewalks were holdovers from fifty years before, with a separate section every two feet, their edges raised and corners cracked by time and tree roots. Vincent didn’t notice any shops, just small Spanish bungalows appearing and disappearing like apparitions in the fog as they walked. They rounded a corner and Flea stepped toward the front porch of an adobe-colored house with a tiled roof.

‘This is a shop?’ he asked.

Flea pointed at a small sign near the door that simply read, ‘Games.’

‘How did you ever find this place?’

Flea wiggled his eyebrows and used his best Boris Karloff voice. ‘Those who know...
know
.’ He opened the door, bowing slightly. ‘After you, good sir.’

Vincent nodded and entered. The room was warm, but not uncomfortably so, with small lights placed haphazardly. Games of every description and size were stacked from floor to ceiling along the walls. Shelves ran down the center of the room, creating small aisles where two people wouldn’t be able to pass without turning sideways. They didn’t run the full length of the room but turned and wandered, creating a maze.

‘Uh...which way?’ He looked at Flea.

Flea said, ‘Walk this way.’ He bent over, hunching one shoulder and dragging his foot. Vincent started to follow but Flea stopped him, continuing the gag. ‘No,
this
way, walk
this
way.’ He hunched and dragged again. When Vincent followed suit, they both broke into laughter and straightened up. ‘Man, I love Mel Brooks.’

‘Frahnken
steen
!’ Vincent said around his laughter. As Flea led the way, Vincent asked, ‘So, how
did
you find this place?’

‘Knife brought me. I never thought to ask him how he tracked it down. Pretty cool huh?’

‘Yeah, it is. They must have every game ever invented.’

‘There’s some pretty old stuff,’ Flea said. ‘What we want is at the back counter.’

‘Who goes there?’ a voice said from beyond the shelves. Vincent spun around quickly.

‘It is I, your favorite customer. I bring a neophyte to your temple of pleasure.’ Flea motioned him to follow.

‘Ahh,’ the voice said. ‘Just what I like, fresh servants to do my bidding.’ Cackling laughter followed.

They rounded another turn in the maze of games and came abruptly to a counter. Instead of the wizened, bespectacled old man Vincent expected, there stood a well-dressed man in his forties, with short, light brown hair and a slightly tanned complexion. He wore brown corduroy pants and a green long-sleeved shirt. The shopkeeper looked like an English teacher. As if to complete the impression, he reached under the counter and retrieved a pipe, which he held like a sword. Pointing with the stem he said, ‘Is this what you bring me? Bah. Where are the dancing girls?’

Flea smiled. ‘All in good time, Mr Brown, all in good time. Vincent, this is Mr Brown, the proprietor of this fine establishment. Mr Brown, may I present Vincent.’

Mr Brown shifted the pipe and extended his right hand. ‘Vincent, I’m pleased to meet you.’

It all seemed weirdly formal to Vincent but he went along. Maybe it was some sort of lesser-known game shop ritual. ‘The pleasure is all mine, Mr Brown.’ He shook his hand firmly and inclined his head slightly.

‘Oh, I like this one,’ Mr Brown said. ‘Finally, someone with proper manners.’ Mr Brown released his hand and wielded the pipe. ‘Now, what brings you into my shop at this late hour?’ He gestured with the pipe rapidly as he spoke, pointing to each of them, the counter, the ceiling, the floor, and somewhere outside.

‘I need to pick up something for tomorrow night. Knife has an encounter he wants to run, and I need a new character piece. I lost my wizard,’ Flea said.

‘That’s fortuitous. I just unpacked some new additions.’ The pipe indicated an empty box on the floor. He turned around, grabbed a few items off the shelf and set them on the counter. They were metal figurines, about an inch tall, and amazingly detailed. Mr Brown waved at the lot then tapped one with his pipe. ‘I think this is the one you will be wanting.’

Flea picked it up and examined it closely. ‘Man, this is nice. It’s perfect. Not sure how you do it, Mr Brown, but you always come through. Check it out, Vincent.’ Flea handed it to him. The little thing was much heavier than he expected. The wizard wore long, flowing robes, frozen mid-ripple in some unseen wind. In one hand, he held a round stone, and in the other, a wand. His mouth was open, and the long hair whipping around his head surrounded his fierce face. There was something familiar about it that Vincent couldn’t put his finger on.

‘Very cool, Flea.’ He handed it back.

‘Well, that was easy. I thought it would take forever to find something. How do you do it, Mr Brown?’

‘I’m a professional,’ he said with a wave of his hand. Vincent glanced around the counter, searching for the pipe. ‘And I can do things you’d never imagine. Now, what can we do for the good Vincent?’

Vincent looked up. ‘I have no idea.’

‘He will be joining us for some gaming.’

Mr Brown said, ‘At the very least you’ll need dice, and perhaps a character piece, provided of course you know what class you want to play. I’m guessing that’s not the case.’

‘It’s all new to me.’ He shrugged.

‘Let’s stick to the dice; you can acquire that next time you visit.’

Mr Brown seemed confident about his return, and Vincent’s thought must have shown. ‘Yes, I am certain you will be back,’ Mr Brown said, with his eyes locked onto Vincent’s.