WARNING: This is NOT the BEGINNING of “EVEREST & THE EXCEPTIONS.” To start at the beginning, go HERE.
Ransom can’t be certain if the spot on his letterman jacket is blood or Arby’s sauce. He tastes it to make certain. Damn it. Blood. Doesn’t taste like his own either. All over the patch. Ransom loves that patch, plush but fierce like a baby tiger. Because it is a baby tiger. Mascot of Brinkley High, where Ransom did not attend. There’s hydrogen peroxide in the trunk, but no time to treat the spot right now. He has to get to the Burnham Estate and repair the air conditioning unit that he sabotaged last night. He also has to do the other thing. His joints ache just thinking about it.
He finishes adjusting the settings on a high-tech pair of goggles, one of his own making. He climbs out of the Buick Skylark and pulls navy blue coveralls out of the plastic wrapping of the cleaners from which he swiped them. Polyester. Hot and itchy. Yay. It reads Blaine Heating & Air just above the right nipple and it is a size too small. Seriously? This thing’s gonna ride up his ass. How’s he gonna do the other thing with camel toe? He’s gotta stay agile. He rips a hole in the crotch so that the whole ensemble gives. That should help a little - and as a bonus, allow his nuggets to breathe. He disrobes right there, pulled over on the access road. A half dozen drive-by’s can easily see him down to the skivvies, but he honestly doesn’t give a rat’s ass. He’s thirty-five and exists on a diet of Twinkies and Pabst Blue Ribbon. Anyone who would enjoy that view is welcome to it. He zips up the man-onesie and grabs his knapsack of tools. At the last moment, he eyes his key fob dangling from the ignition. Oh yeah, Ransom considers, probably shouldn’t forget that. He slaps the fake wood siding of the automobile and kisses his knuckles for luck. Time to make the doughnuts.
He makes his way past a mailbox that is more expensive than his old apartment and maneuvers around the Beamers and Bentleys that await in the circular drive. After a brief errand around the side of the house, he rings the doorbell. It chimes a melody for at least eight seconds. Edelweiss. Ransom rolls his eyes. While he waits, he absent-mindedly clicks a button on his key fob over and over, quicker each time - as if practicing. Each click causes the fob to emit a pin prick of light. On. Off. On. Off. He is startled by a mummified male voice coming out of an intercom to his immediate left. He hates intercoms. “Good afternoon. Who’s calling?”
Ransom does his best to sound official, “Blaine Heating and Air.”
The voice is garbled and Ransom cannot be certain if it is the fault of technology or biology, “I’m sorry - who?”
Ransom can’t resist the comedy set-up, “I’m only a dolphin, ma’am.”
The intercom is agitated by his Chevy Chase impression, “You’re a what? Who is this?!”
Ransom corrects his misstep and presses his face right against the box, urgent, “Sorry, bad connection. This is the repairman you called from Blaine Heating and…”
The door unlatches, cutting Ransom off mid-sentence. An elderly man, whiter than Ransom’s briefs and dressed like an English butler, peeks out from the inside, “Apologies. So many solicitors, you see.”
Ransom is all fake-business, “You called about a busted AC unit?”
The servant wearing tails and a vest seems quite relieved, “At last. It is hot indeed.”
Ransom is ushered quickly past rooms crowded with overdressed and sweaty well-wishers, all appearing solemn while whispering scandalous minutia: “At some point, the only rational thing for grandfather to do is give up the ghost.” “It would at least be generous.” “Since when has Uncle Gary been generous?” “I only hope the will was notarized before the unfortunate choices began.” “Oh - I rather like his tattoos.” “On a man of means? Ugh. So common.”
“Did someone die?” Ransom asks.
The butler is quick to respond with a rehearsed smile, “Oh, not just yet.”
This detail relieves Ransom, but for all the wrong reasons. The butler ushers Ransom into the kitchen to meet Miss Roarke, Gary Burnham’s thrice-divorced daughter and the eldest of his heirs. She sips at a Tom Collins that is definitely not her first of the afternoon.
“Goodness almighty,” Miss Roarke gasps, “aren’t you a tall drink of water?” She fans herself with a legal document that has the stuff she is going to inherit highlighted in pink, sweat darkening the pits of her velour tracksuit.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ransom mutters noncommittal, “I’ll have you square in a jiffy.”
She inches too close, “I’ll just bet you will.” She touches the stitching of his coveralls, which he hates, “Blaine. Like Andrew McCarthy in Pretty in Pink.”
Ransom stares, an undeserved smile, “I doubt it.” She takes the hint and removes her hand.
“Please excuse Reginald,” she motions to the overdressed servant, “he’s what you’d call a leftover. As soon as Daddy’s gone...” Miss Roarke makes a slit-his-throat motion and attempts an onomatopoeia that projectiles spit all over Ransom’s face. She blushes, “Oh. Sorry. Not very good at sound effects.” Her statement is accurate. He smiles anyway.
“Best keep everyone downstairs,” Ransom urges, “until I can make the repairs in the attic.”
“The attic?” Miss Roarke is puzzled, this conversation the most heavy-lifting she has done all week.
“You’ve got a McGraw-Edison Coolerator AR0500XW6. Stopped making ‘em a decade ago, so you’re gonna need a replacement blade fan.”
She clutches her chest, flushed from the adrenaline of impressive information, “Oh my. A blade fan!”
“Got a replacement WPL1155859 in the bag,” Ransom thoroughly enjoys the lies, “Law of averages says it’s clogged by a rodent.”
“A rodent?! Not in this house.”
“Yes’m. Even the finest of establishments have weather-induced cracks and crevices. A bat can squeeze in through a slit the size of a dime.”
“Heavens! A bat?!”
“Or a nest of baby bats. Either way, best keep the crowd downstairs - no matter what you might hear.”
Miss Roarke is stunned. Enough for Ransom to rush unfollowed up the stairs as she tops off her Tom Collins.
There are, of course, no bats. There is also no air conditioning unit in the attic. The system is around the side of the house where Ransom clipped the electric last night. He repaired it just before he rang the doorbell. It is well on its way to cooling the house, but the family won’t notice until they believe they should. Second-generation wealthy know nothing about simple matters like air conditioning because they are seldom required to deal with them. Ransom laughs under his breath, As if a house this size could run off of the McGraw-Edison Coolerator. Morons. Yes, all of these details are cookie crumbs for the police - but the Burnham family will not even consider foul play. They already expect, and in fact want the patriarch to die. Admitting complications only serves to stall the dispersement of the estate. If the law does get involved, it won’t matter. It never matters. Witnesses can talk the livelong day about the man standing by the Buick Skylark in his tightie-whities. It won’t matter. Because Ransom is a ghost to this world. A stranger hitchhiking through. No home. No relationships. No tethers for the law to yank. And if they did somehow get hold of him, it wouldn’t last. He wouldn’t go quietly. He would force a standoff, which would be at least interesting for a few hours and likely end this entire soul-sucking, futile existence. Ransom does not fear death. Death is a relief that eludes him. He has far more terrible concerns than that.
Ignoring the entryway to the attic, he follows the beeping of medical equipment to the end of a maze of halls. A double door insists the Master Bedroom awaits on the other side. He sets down his bag of gear and pulls out a small black zipped packet and a pair of high-tech goggles. The packet fits perfectly in the back pocket of the coveralls, an unexpected benefit. He places the goggles over his eyes and unsheathes a steel bar two-feet long with red blinking lights on both ends. He double-checks that his key fob is clipped to the buckle in his coveralls, then he pushes the bedroom door slowly open.
It is a room of opulence and decay. Filled with the finest things money can buy and completely absent of a single drop of joy. A very old man lay on a hospital-grade bed, equipment connected to him: monitors, IV tubes, breathing apparatus, the works. The lights and sounds of technology are the only hint that he remains in the land of the living. He is weathered and random patches of spiked grey hair adorn his otherwise bald dome. His arms lay firmly to his sides, his fingers clutching the silk bedsheet as if there is more tension in his pain than there are narcotics in his IV. Each arm has four dark stripes all the way across: the tattoos mentioned downstairs by his impatient heirs. This is the 83-year-old man everyone believes to be Gary Burnham, the photocopier magnate of Atlanta and stern taskmaster of a father. But, he has only been Gary for forty years. Before that, he was Laszlo Sommar of the SS, managing the crematorium at the Majdanek Concentration Camp near Lublin, Poland. Now that Ransom sees in the flesh the man he has been researching for five months, he reconsiders his mission. It is too gentle.
Ransom pulls the black zipped packet out of his rear pocket and opens it up. Five syringes of a deep amber liquid are secured inside. He selects one quietly and removes the plastic sleeve covering the needle. He squeezes lightly to eliminate air bubbles even though they really don’t matter in this particular case. He holds the syringe at the ready and eases quietly toward the dying Nazi. His eyes rove down to the tattoos across Laszlo’s forearms, each appearing swollen and infected. Ransom has considered this moment for a long time.
He breaks the silence, “You really thought I wouldn’t find you?”
Laszlo Sommar, surprised by the invasion, sputters, “Who is there? How did you get in here?”
Ransom continues, “Shut up, old man. Nobody’s talking to you.”
And then a third voice from underneath the bed, cold and hollow like the feeling when you wake up at three in the morning and could swear there is a stranger in the shadows. It answers Ransom in a whisper, It felt like you. I almost didn’t recognize you without your father’s jacket.
Laszlo, panicked and confused, is silenced by the thing controlling him. Ransom engages with the haunting voice, “That’s the last time you will ever mention my father.”
But, you still wear it, don’t you, Ransom? You can’t help yourself.
“You think you’re messing with my head, but you’re just proving my theory that you soul munchers have a hive mind.”
I know not soul munchers.
“Sorry. Rectum rot. Do you have any idea how complicated it is to be in an otherwise empty room with one of you when your host dies?”
You are the one with the strategies. The one with the thing to prove. It will make defeating you delicious - so much despair.
“I feel so seen,” Ransom thumps the syringe, “And it’s only our first date. Buy a guy dinner first.”
Oh, you are indeed seen. You know full well the only way to attempt to capture me is by a despicable act.
“As a category, murder is despicable,” Ransom takes Laszlo’s hand, still holding firm to the bedsheet, and inserts the needle into the soft skin between two of Laszlo’s fingers, ready to squeeze, “but you picked the wrong prey this time.”
The parasite allows Laszlo a breath and the old man uses it to protest, “Wait! I am not...”
But, Ransom interrupts, “I have done a great deal of research on your life, Laszlo Sommer.”
“My name is Gary Burnham! Photocopier magnate of Atla...”
“Wow. No wonder you’re so sick, all that shit falling out of your mouth,” Ransom hears a terrible whispered laugh emerge from underneath the bed, but he doesn’t care - this moment a necessary evil, “The toxin in this syringe is Zyklon B. Does that ring a bell?”
Laszlo begins to mumble and weep underneath his breathing apparatus.
Ransom continues undeterred, “A hydrogen cyanide cocktail that makes cellular respiration its bitch. It takes twenty minutes to kill you. Wow. Twenty minutes. I don’t like to jog that long. But, you’re going to die that long. Harsh, right? I believe you are quite familiar with the sound of hundreds attempting to escape a room where this poison is pouring out of the shower heads?”
Laszlo’s mumbles begin to become more intelligible underneath the sobs, “Yes,” he says, “Best to do it.” Angry, Ransom doesn’t quite understand until Laszlo continues, “End it. End it. So much. Too much.”
Yes. Too much. Pain. Regret. Remorse. Voices. Secrets. Lies. Damn it. Ransom kills monsters, not Jews - but he still understands in full what Laszlo means. He carries all of those same things inside of him. People say it’s a weight. It isn’t. It’s worse. It’s a mold. A black mold that sticks to the inside of your being infesting everything that gets in to something dark and bitter. It’s not grief. It’s separation. Like when you tell the best person you ever knew that you never want to see them again. Which, by the way, Ransom did. He thought it would chase his father away. Instead, it drew him to Ransom at precisely the wrong time - and killed him. That’s why he wears the letterman jacket. Unfortunately, the voice under the bed knows this.
“You are very familiar with those excruciating twenty minutes - because you watched them. Prisoner after prisoner suffering and pleading and pressing their mass of bodies against the door. You just watched and listened and did nothing. So, that’s exactly what I’m going to do to you - right now.” Laszlo’s eyes are saucers as Ransom plunges the syringe, the poison flooding into Laszlo’s bloodstream. Ransom doesn’t skip a beat, “I will more than likely monologue while I wait, because to be honest, I find myself entertaining. I would very much like to see what the fiercest moment of remorse looks like on a man’s face.” And with that, Laszlo is unconscious.
You did not give him Zyklon B.
“No,” Ransom admits to the whisper underneath the bed, “It’s an overdose of the medication on his drip. No trace.”
But, you want him to die afraid.
“You’re no Donahue, but you get some details right. He deserves to die afraid. You and I both know that I’m not really here for him, so why don’t you go ahead and release this dry husk so you and I can tussle?”
The tattoos on Laszlo’s arms move as the thing tightens its grip, pus oozing from the infected stripes. The beeps indicating Laszlo’s tether to this world is weakening considerably. The voice persists, Oh, I won’t let go just yet. This is the tastiest part. These last desperate moments he knows he cannot escape the inevitable. He has a few terrible minutes of his life remaining - and I intend to savor them.
Ransom stretches his hamstrings then pops his neck, readying his grip around the metal pipe he brought with him, “So, I know the higher-ups in your situation frown upon doling out info, but we’ve got a couple minutes here, so indulge me. Which is it: do you Afflictions fill your host with terrible things - or do you just suck out all the good?”
What’s the difference?
“Well - one is terrible, and the other sucks.”
We are not so simple as you believe. We are myth and legend and nightmare. We emerge from the darkest corners of the Aokigahara Wood and infest the heart shadows of the depraved and...
“Oh my God, your poetry is terrible. Maybe Teen Beat will publish it, and then I can read it while I wait for my dentist to give me a root canal - but right now, it’s just motivating me to kick your ass.”
Silence, mortal.
“See. Under all that bluster, I sensed agitation. Fear even,” Ransom goads him on, “That’s the real downside to filling your host with rage. Nobody wants to loiter at the dying bedside of somebody who spews hatred like Testicle Face here. And without someone else nearby, you don’t have anyone new to latch onto when Laszlo’s life force flushes out.” Ransom’s timing is intentional as the beep of Laszlo’s heartbeat slows to a crawl.
You - are someone else nearby.
“Bring it, fungus-nuts,” Ransom stands, metal pipe at the ready, “I’ve been champing to take one of you down for years.”
And Laszlo flatlines.
His eyes go dead, the color disappears from his face, but most importantly, the tendrils holding him down - the tentacled fingers that appeared to all as tattoos on his forearms - unfurl and disappear beneath the bed. They have been digging into the Nazi so long and so deeply, Ransom can see bone.
“Wow - I should not have eaten that Hot Pocket.”
Ransom clicks a dial on the dark blue sensors of his goggles to acquire the precise frequency, allowing him to see a black ooze flush out from underneath the bed, rapidly pooling a few feet from Laszlo, the now-dead Nazi war criminal. The liquid rises and bubbles like tar, stretching and swirling into a physical mass, taller and taller, towering above Ransom, its peak almost brushing the ceiling. It is an enormous and undulating glob - colored a black sort of purple that smells of crude oil and animal corpse and Ransom makes a mental note that all of this is pretty damn gross. A psychic missile of a thought emanates from the creature - from the hive mind of all Afflictions, targeting Ransom’s consciousness in a terror of a whisper inside his head: Die, sinner. But, Ransom is never a man without a comeback, “You first.”
The Affliction that Ransom calls Latch roars into a terrifying display, his large and decaying mouth a vacuous hole that unfolds his entire hideous body inside-out from its circumference. His grotesque innards jarringly become his exterior and back again in a disgusting and disorienting loop - like a Magic Eye painting that wants to eat you. One moment a shiny blackish-purple exterior, the next moment, its ugly mouth sucking its rubbery skin completely off and its body seemingly made of intestines dripping with ooze. The tendrils lash violently out toward Ransom, who understands that if Latch gets a solid grip on him, he will become the creature’s next unwilling host. The abomination would be able to do more than read Ransom, he would be inside his mind, knowing all that he knows. Understanding fully who Ransom truly is. This would be bad. Ransom is quick with the metal bar, catching the wrap-around of Latch’s tendrils and twisting the bar to tangle them into confusion. In one fell swoop, as if water skiing, Ransom bends and yanks at the bar, the physical manifestation of the Affliction thrown off balance and into the armoire. The beast stunned, Ransom triggers a button on the bar and one of the red lights blinks white, sending a laser-focused beam toward the creature. In the nanosecond it takes to realize the nature of Ransom’s weapon, Latch melts into ooze and flows rapidly away, dodging the pinprick of flashing light that could have done him significant damage. The monster squeals in realization and Ransom loses his balance, falling to the floor and losing his grip on the weapon. It clatters and spins across the room. On his hands and face, Ransom sees the device roll under Laszlo’s bed, the ooze creeping, searching for it.
Ransom army-crawls in a mad scramble toward the bed, his quads angry at him for lack of exercise. The ooze is farther away, but fast. Ransom gets there first, but his fingers cannot quite extend to seize the device, Ransom’s frame unable to fit underneath.
Wishing right about now that he had laid off those McDLT’s.
Latch almost has it now. Ransom needs another inch of reach - and unfortunately, he knows how to gain it. He closes his eyes and, in an excruciating moment of decision, POP - dislocates his own shoulder. The primal gasp of furious pain that emerges from Ransom is enough to startle the beast for the briefest of moments. Ransom lunges forward, the architecture of his own body shifted enough to squeeze further - and he grasps the bar. He rolls away just as Latch’s tendrils arrive.
Ransom stands, heaving to breathe, his left arm limp at his side. Breathless and clearly in agony, he readies the metal pipe with his right hand as he wipes the cold sweat from his brow. His left arm is useless in this fight.
I will consume you for my sustenance and I will make a playground of your mind.
“After this throw-down, you guys might want to hire a copywriter to wordsmith your banter,” Ransom’s eyes dart, peering into every shadow for movement, “It’s a little off-brand if your aim is to intimidate.”
I will know your innermost thoughts. I will identify those you love - and I will send my companions to eat them all alive.
“Then your companions are going to starve,” Ransom speaks the truth for once as he locates the beast, “because I only love one person,” he quietly secures his aim, “and she’s long gone.” Flash.
The pulse of light snags the tail-end of the abomination, capturing one tendril in its thin beam. Latch roars to life, expanding into its full size, shrieking in high psychic pitches that torture Ransom’s eardrums. Ludicrous pain. Latch grasps for leverage throughout the room with its other tendrils, fighting against the pull with the extent of its mammoth strength. The light is powerful, but right this moment, Ransom is not - the resistance of the beast hurls Ransom violently as he struggles to hold tight to the steel bar with his bad arm. Other tendrils attempt to seize Ransom as his body is brutalized across the room, thrown into medical equipment, walls, and smashed against the ceiling. But, Ransom is wily and the beast cannot maintain a grip on him.
The Affliction grasps the doorknob, pulling with immense force against the capture by the light. Ransom is on the floor now, bracing against the leg of the bed, his strength waning. His fingers sweaty and slipping, Ransom inadvertently releases the capture button, liberating the demon. Latch unfurls, sling-shooting against the bedroom door and bursting through it. Ransom is quick to his feet and hurtling after the monster. It must not be allowed to reach another human, especially these inbreeds downstairs. Ransom dives into the hallway and triggers the weapon, shooting a beam of light toward the stairwell just as Latch is about to round the corner and move down to the family. The flash causes the beast to shriek and alter trajectory, splintering the attic door and fleeing in and upward. Ransom pursues, close behind, flashing light here and there to keep this thing contained.
Emerging into the dark and musty attic space, Ransom is on alert. Latch could be hiding anywhere amidst this clutter. So large, such accumulation of wealth, all gathering dust. The contents of this room could buy lunch for Tunisia, but are instead piled underneath tarps. One uncovered piece of art catches Ransom’s eye. He admires, under his breath, “Is that a Warhol? Oh my God, he owns Triple Elvis.” Impressed and distracted, Ransom doesn’t see the ottoman flying through the air until it hits him square in the jaw.
Knocked flat, Ransom scrambles for the steel bar and clicks the light on. He aims the beam frantically about the room, disoriented and feeling the warmth of his own blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth. He spits out something hard: a tooth. Ransom gains his wits and searches with intent. Just as he catches Latch’s shadow, the spear end of a coatrack is hurled toward him. He dodges it just before it has a chance to shish-kabob his torso. It sticks into the wall behind him, protruding.
Your weapon expends a great deal of energy. I cannot imagine it will maintain its power much longer.
Ransom knows Latch is correct. He cannot keep roaming the room randomly, hoping to catch the beast with the beam. The device will be useless soon.
No clever quips? You disappoint.
“I’m a traditional guy. I’m saving myself until you and I are married.”
Another dark and large object flies straight for Ransom. He rolls and evades, it splinters against the wall into large pieces. One of the chunks, a wooden horse’s head, lands next to Ransom, “Where did this asshole spend his money?!” Ransom leaps to his feet and aims the steel bar toward the trajectory of where the item was thrown. He clicks the light. It blinks. It sputters. All of its power depleted. A sinister snicker invades Ransom’s psyche, You’d better have a Plan B.
And then, between Ransom and wherever the beast is hiding, an unexpected voice emerges from the doorway, “Master Blaine, have you contained the rodent?” It is Reginald the butler, clearly having heard the melee and hence compelled to investigate.
Salvation.
“GET OUT!” Ransom shouts the warning as the tendrils of the Affliction shoot out of the shadows and engulf the old man. The unfortunate soul gasps, gulping a terrified breath as the thing pulls his limp and surrendered body rapidly toward itself, wrapping its tentacles around his arms and legs and deep into the man’s widening mouth, smothering his head and absorbing into his full form. Reginald’s appearance transitions quite seamlessly in seven seconds from abject terror into something akin to calm, though a corrupt forgery. Reginald’s eyes shine a blackish purple and he throws a slanted smile Ransom’s direction, “This. Feels. Better.”
Latch has found a new host.
Ransom lets the powerless steel bar dangle from the fingers of his right hand as Reginald walks slowly toward him, inhaling and exhaling like this body is a revelation. Reginald’s voice is deeper, more confident, “What is this power and blackness?”
Ransom pleads, “Reginald, reject what is happening right now.”
“Why?”
“Trust me,” Ransom implores, “I know you feel strong, but it is a usurper - a vile and soul-sucking leech. Your life depends on it.”
“My life? My life! What do you know of my life? The leeches downstairs have sucked me dry every day of my existence. These entitled terrors and their proclivities and indiscretions that I am indentured to cover.” Latch whispers nothing. It is only Reginald now, “No more. This - this is redemption. I am capable. A new beginning. I will burn this mansion - this hole of hell - to ash. And I will never look back.” His words end. He now stands, face-to-face, inches from Ransom. Reginald awaits a response.
“Well, shit.”
Ransom winds back with all the strength he can muster and brings the steel bar down hard on Reginald’s skull, splitting the old man’s head open and knocking him brutally to the floor. He stands over his body.
Look at you. These complicated matters have such violent ends.
“Shut up. Let me think,” Ransom leans down, pressing on the head wound to stop the bleeding. He hit the man harder than he realized.
After all your posturing as the hero, you are no better than we who infest the mind and body. You, as well, play judge and jury over matters in which you have no authority.
“Quiet,” Reginald’s breathing stutters as Ransom attempts to revive him.
You claim to only bring suffering to the evil - but if you search your choices, that claim is left severely wanting. Causing suffering in others is your only consistent talent. You have left this man in an inevitable vegetative state. Alive, but just enough to serve my purposes. I will latch on to his energy for years until I find the right moment to leap into the next host.
Ransom leans back, his hands on his knees and the butler’s blood on his coveralls.
As with every meaningful effort in your life, you have failed once again, Ransom.
Ransom’s thoughts race, his eyes darting.
I have escaped into the one called Reginald - and you, you are now the fugitive who must flee, who must search desperately for a place of safety only to discover that one does not exist.
Heavy-hearted, Ransom has made up his mind. He looks Reginald dead in the eye, “I’m so sorry.” Ransom plunges one of the syringes deep into Reginald’s arm.
What have you done?!
Reginald’s body convulses, his system unadapted to the intense chemical. His frame spasms, violent and terrible, foam pouring from his open mouth. All the while, Latch spews curses and profanities as the demon is forced to release the old man.
Ransom crouches against the far wall, the bloody steel bar no longer effective. He drops it to the floor. Gritting his teeth and holding hard to a poker face, Ransom lacks significant confidence in this improvisation.
Latch releases the warm but dead body like a rag doll and scurries about the room in a rage, growing larger than before and lashing out in every direction, determined to destroy his foe. Ransom continues to crouch, face stern and solid, bracing himself with determination. There is no going back now. This must succeed.
And then, the inevitable: Latch seizes Ransom by the ankles and throws him full force onto the floor in the center of the room, Latch’s appendages thudding down like an entrapment all around Ransom’s body, holding him secure, incapable of escape - but hesitating to take him over. Ransom stares up at the cavernous hole.
I intend for you to experience true agony. Soak up this fear. This desperation. Because once I am inside you, you will be unfairly numb and that is no punishment at all. Though, you will make quite the trophy for the Crow Father. Latch shrieks just shy of Ransom’s face, the stench unbearable. It is as if he and all of his kind can see into Ransom’s soul. After all this time, your compulsion to hunt, you still resist true understanding. We Afflictions know you better than you know yourself. And we remain unimpressed. The burden of your history that you carry upon your back. You can kill as many of us as suits your appetite, but it won’t change the fact that there will always be more - every single one of us reminding you of the ways you have destroyed the life of each person that has ever mattered to you. And now, this sad old man. Everyone who stumbles into the line of fire of your miserable existence suffers the consequences. Every single one of us will outlive your personal demons. You - have - failed. So, what clever thing do you have left to say now, Ransom?
His stare undeterred, Ransom opens his mouth. He is holding his key fob clenched between his teeth, the lens of the pin of light aimed squarely at Latch. Latch panics and attempts to release, but not before Ransom is able to click the light with his teeth, the pinprick shooting directly into Latch’s black hole of a mouth. ZIFF. Latch shrieks like a banshee and reaches his tendrils about the room, but his efforts are futile. In a tornado of suck that vibrates the attic, Latch is gone, housed within the key fob. Ransom spits the device onto the floor and exhales.
“That’s Plan B, you son of a bitch.”
It is pouring rain as Ransom rips off the goggles and hurls himself into the driver’s side of the Buick Skylark. He stashed Reginald’s body behind the stack of belongings on the far side of the attic. The corpse will inevitably be found, but not for days due to events that will surround the death of the patriarch. Perhaps weeks, as it may be assumed Reginald’s absence is grief over the loss of a beloved employer - or escape. Idiots. Regardless, Ransom will be long gone and his location untraceable to everyone except his cohorts at the Collective. But, none of that eliminates the remorse.
Ransom discards the bag of gear on top of a stack of files on the passenger seat, unzipping the polyester coveralls and wiping the rain from his face. He starts the car and begins driving, too fast, multiple blocks before he realizes he isn’t paying attention to where he is going. Why did that codger have to come up to the attic? Conflicting emotions arise within Ransom and, as usual, he interprets them as anger and blame. Sweating now with the adrenaline of the moment wearing off, Ransom pulls over into the parking lot of a long-abandoned pawn shop. He stares at the windshield as it fogs up from the inside. You damn, damn fool, uncertain whether he means Reginald or himself.
He leans hard into the steering wheel, bending his torso very specifically. Ransom shifts his weight with intentional violence and POP, his shoulder falls back into place. He grunts with the weight of frustration and regret and physical pain and fury. He honks the horn hard and repeatedly for no one to hear. He reaches into the glove compartment and retrieves a prescription bottle, flipping it open with his thumb and popping three pills into his mouth. He catches sight of his own reflection in the rearview mirror. He has not truly studied his own reflection in quite some time. It appears to be himself, but older and hollow.
Just about to put the car into gear, Ransom pauses, glancing at the black unzipped packet on the passenger seat, open with only three syringes remaining. His stare lingering long enough to surprise himself, Ransom slowly takes the packet and unstraps one of the syringes. It beckons him as he unsheathes the needle. He moves slowly and intentionally, wondering if any part of him will feel a compulsion to stop. He presses the needle against an artery in his neck. He eyes the plunger in the rear view mirror, his thumb hovering at the ready to end matters. It would be so simple. So instant. Everything - the pain scrambling around in his mind would simply stop, wouldn’t it? He doesn’t actually know what comes after this hell. Could be oblivion, could be a whole new hell. No one would even find him or miss him for days, at least not until Granville at the Collective sends out a scout chopper.
A drop of blood appears at the tip of the needle, just beginning to pierce Ransom’s skin. He closes his eyes. He weighs the damage he has done. Wrongs that can never be made right. Plans and strategies gone too far afoul. Lives ruined. If it were within his power to reverse matters, perhaps - but it all feels so - impossible. Ransom is overwhelmed with the infestation of black mold coating his insides. Not an Affliction, but no easier to eradicate. He places his thumb on the plunger and is just about to squeeze.
And then - the sound of voices over static.
The high-tech console on the floorboard of the passenger side blinks to life. Ransom instinctively drops the syringe and reaches over, pulling the contraption onto his lap. Somehow, those boys have strengthened the signal. He studies a heat signature on the large device that gives him a sense of their location as he hears them, “Over here. It’s strongest over here,”“Is it in the red,” “Closer - but no.” The clarity of the words is popping in and out. Ransom checks his watch. It is almost five o’clock. They have no idea what is about to happen to them. Ransom pulls the microphone from the side, untangling the curled and twisted cord. He urges a location: “Get to the backyard.” An enormous BOOM on the boys end interrupts the transmission and Ransom hopes it is only thunder. Then, silence. He sets the bulky transmitter back down - and breathes.
He eyes the syringe, the chemical still intact inside of it. Ransom calms. He sighs. He gently pulls his father’s letterman jacket over his aching shoulder, feeling some semblance of home. He never treated the blood stain on the tiger patch. It will have to wait. He carefully places the syringe back and tosses the zipped packet onto the passenger seat. He gathers his wits. Okay, you cursed bastard. Save those boys. Ransom reaches for the file on the passenger seat underneath his tool bag. He opens it and reads the research on Everest and Harrison Manning. Their voices return to the device: “Would you just stop it with all the Mother and Father?! It’s barely raining now. I mean, we’re fifteen, Ev! This is - this is SOMETHING, don’t you think?!”
Ransom takes the microphone, pauses, then leans in, “The Grand Horizon. And you really need to hurry.”
He scrubs his cheek of the last tear gravity has claimed from his eyes. He studies the photos in the file of the twin brothers living in Franklin, Tennessee - his own handwritten notes cover the pages. He turns on the radio and joins Van Halen already in progress. As he drives away, a mission to distract him from his pain, Ransom slaps the dashboard and kisses his knuckles for luck. Time to make the doughnuts.
Next: Read "EVEREST & THE EXCEPTIONS" Chapter Four PREVIEW: the horrific and thrilling continuation of Mark Steele’s upcoming fictional novel coming in October 2024.