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One Prime Mover

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I finally got started on a rather involved series of novels ("DEATH," predictably followed by "PLAGUE," "WAR" and "FAMINE"), and I think the first chapter turned out damn spiffy. The general idea is of a final battle between the personified forces of memory and loss (my version of the good vs. evil showdown), playing out in the not-too-distant future. Please let me know what you think!

Chapter 1: Memories of Sound and Fury

“The Boiler Room”

Underground Industrial Music Club

Houston, Texas

If there was music to the sound and the fury, it struggled to be heard. The view from the stage was one of Hell: the fire of blinding pyrotechnics, the heat of tightly packed bodies and the writhing and thrashing of a captive audience. It was power, it was chaos tightly leashed, and Colin desperately drank it down. He clung to rhythm and rage as if they were driftwood and he was drowning; he wanted to be the sound, be the fury, be anything other than Colin Shaw.

Colin played harder, and things got a little better. He could fight himself, could fight the past, but it was the night that was dragging him under. This night was a bad one and Colin struggled to escape it.

Colin played louder, and things got a little better. His eyes slammed shut against the sweat pouring down his face, but only for a second. He wasn’t ready to look inside just yet.

The night was heavy and smothering, demanding Colin’s undivided attention. It felt alive, just a little, its conscious purpose to weigh down in rebellion against Colin’s struggle to repress and to forget. He could feel its insistence against his refusal to think, his unwillingness to face what he had done. Insidious, it endured even after blinding stage lights replaced the accusing judgment of the stars outside.

Colin shut his mind like he had his eyes. Blind to his doubt, deaf to his guilt, he numbed himself to the sins he’d committed with the setting sun. These were the things he wanted to forget, so he played louder. He played harder. The chemicals--some legal, some not--kicked in and wrapped Colin in an anaesthetic fog.

The night fell back, and memory, too.

Angry, hot music pulsed to the pounding drum, drowning out any sound that wasn't a part of it. As rhythmic as it was discordant, as much outlet as it was art, it washed over the densely packed crowd in the pit at the foot of the stage. They thrashed in time with every beat, lost to a primal trance, vainly grasping for an experience of oneness with the thunderous crash of fury as music. The Boiler Room used to cater to the electronic crowd. It used to call itself Flux, back when raves were good business. Tastes change. The people wanted rage and they found it in Seethe, a threesome of talentless young twenty-somethings with that perfect combination of style and volume.

Colin was Seethe's drummer. It was a long set, and Seethe’s screamer, Scott, had three encores selflessly lined up. Colin wished he could lose himself with the practiced ease of the people he was playing to, to find that same place of mindless freedom from heat, pain and fear. He couldn’t. Burning muscles and crippling fatigue were all he had tonight; what rage he had was lost to chemical numbness. Colin cobbled together the deafening rhythms with all the passion he’d bring to a tedious chore.

Colin allowed his eyes to wander, roving in search of some distraction to lure his aimless attention. Thoughts flitted from place to place like sparks in a gusting wind. They were well behaved; they avoided what Colin had forbidden them. He raised his gaze to the mob, to the crowd at the foot of the stage, and saw ... something.

As one does when reality is suddenly besieged, when the comfortable and the expected is threatened, Colin saw without seeing for a few disorienting seconds. The first one passed, and something became someone: A woman, standing in the pit. Another rushed by and there was something about her, something that couldn’t be. A third stretched on forever, and Colin saw. A lightning current of electric shock consumed him, radiating cracks through the wall of numbing rhythm he’d raised around himself. Seethe’s performance came to a strangled halt. A drumstick fell from a hand gone suddenly limp.

When volume is as important to music as talent, silence is unforgivable. Scott's head turned fractionally, just enough to meet Colin's look of stunned surprise with one of reserved, icy coolness. Seethe's lead singer signalled a restart to the lightning crescendo Colin had interrupted. Colin retrieved his drumstick, tearing his disbelieving eyes from the girl who had caught them.

There was one woman in the pit that Colin had seen before. On any other night he would have been watching her from the moment the fires first blazed to life for Seethe's ninety-minute set. Flawless in the muted light, she always struck him as out of place. Her black hair was streaked with electric violet and she, unlike anyone else, always kept it from matting with sweat. It framed a delicate face made enticingly dangerous by a scarlet eyebrow stud that glinted with the color of blood. She moved with passion, throwing herself into the sound without inhibition, revelling in a tight dress that combined with frenzied dance to show off every flattering curve she knew she had. It was during Seethe’s first gig that Colin had wondered if she would accept an invitation backstage. He’d gotten his answer when she'd met his stare with a sly wink and a devilish smirk.

Colin had seen pretty women before. He didn't think there existed one who could make him fumble a base beat.

It was the girl who wasn't dancing that had.

She stood in the center of the thrashing crowd, unmoving, like she was deaf to the music. Childlike eyes stared back at Colin from a small face, her mouth curved in a way that was neither a smile nor a frown. Her hands were folded delicately. She was eighteen, at most, and dressed to be forgotten. Her straight, brown hair was utterly uninteresting. She wore no jewellery, no make-up. Colin watched the pit and its people pulsing around her, an unchecked chaos more frenzied than Seethe's ear-splitting music. It was energy that should have broken anyone unwilling to bend, dragging them under or forcing them out, yet the girl watched him serenely from its center. Cradled in a ring of empty floor perhaps three feet across, she stood delicate and resolute in the eye of a hurricane.

Watching.

Struggling to retrieve what was left of Seethe’s musical momentum, Colin pounded hard the opening he'd ruined. He played as loud as his screaming muscles would allow, hammering out rolling thunder to overwhelm the sounds of disapproval from Seethe's unrelenting fans, to quiet his mind as it guttered like a dying flame. Colin looked back to the girl. She still stood where he'd seen her last, deep blue eyes lifted to meet his. Her head was bent to the side, cocked curiously, and one corner of her pale lips had edged upwards into a sad half-smile.

The music lunged forwards and swept Colin up in its passage. He lost his awareness of passing time as his attention drowned in the depths of the girl’s eyes. He played robotically, mounting speed and pressure, coaxing new heights of fury from the Boiler Room's ravenous pit. The mob surged to life more violently than before in an attempt to regain what Colin had carelessly taken from them. The air swelled with intensity of sound and Seethe's fans drank it down. Only one remained still: The girl in the eye of Seethe's musical chaos, the woman no one touched.

Driving Seethe’s momentum, Colin played the mob like a weapon against the girl who shouldn’t be. He watched Kurt struggle to keep up on guitar and dragged Scott through a white-water bridge that left him gasping for breath. It wasn’t enough; Colin led Seethe into the red, and the mob followed.

The inevitable soon happened: A studded headbanger with silver-spiked hair tripped, stumbled and fell, meeting another man's flailing elbow with his lower jaw. Recoiling, his bloodied face twisted in angry, frightened pain, he reeled into the girl's three-foot circle of empty solitude. Colin's eyes lifted and his breath caught. He was surprised at how desperately he wanted him to hit her-–anything to ground in reality the madness in the pit, the impossible empty stillness in which one woman stood.

The man spun on his ankle, pivoted and lost control, leaning wildly as he groped for balance. He drew away from the girl. Colin was certain he'd miss her completely, then watched as the headbanger’s arm cracked like a whip towards her face. With no more than an inch to spare it contorted in a way that was inhuman, snapping as it bent outwards to avoid contact. The girl watched with unblinking disregard. No one looked towards her as the wounded headbanger crashed to the ground and was swallowed by the crowd.

Everyone danced, and everyone kept their distance. The girl took a step forward. Unhesitant and purposeful, it was quickly followed by another. She pressed towards the stage, moving effortlessly through the chaos Colin had created. He watched with dawning fear as Seethe's hungry fans parted like a curtain, flowing out of the girl’s path with a single-mindedness that wasn’t possible. Colin fumbled again, and again brought Seethe to blasphemous silence. Insults were flung from the pit by men who moved aside with mute complacency to make way for her. She never came within a foot of another human body, never had to wait for one to move out of her way. Colin felt bile in his throat and rankness in his gut. He lifted a hand to his mouth, staggered to his feet amidst curses and thrown bottles, and fled the stage.

~~~~

It was hot outside, too, even for Texas. The parking lot, a run down mat of cracked, black asphalt, overturned garbage cans and blowing trash, was dark: Shattered bulbs outnumbered working lights three to one. This late it was almost empty, and Colin had little trouble finding his truck despite the darkness. His mind was tangled in the memories of that girl, and he went through rote motions without awareness: Pocket. Keys. Lock. Distracted, he opened his trunk before remembering he'd left the stage without his equipment. The hatch swung upwards and thoughts of strange women were lost to a moment of sickening confusion as Colin stared dumbly at the broken corpse piled awkwardly into the back of his battered Explorer.

Memories assailed Colin, images and sounds and emotions he'd so desperately sought to forget. Numbed and blinded by drug-soaked denial, Colin faced a sick second of plunging surprise when his eyes met the body of the man he’d murdered. Blood came first, a surfacing vision so visceral and primal that, for a moment, it was all consuming. Memories dissolved into a red haze and Colin knew only a crimson fog that held no real meaning, until it took shape as the spattered mess he’d wiped from his windshield hours earlier. An accompanying symphony of furious thunder became the memory of screeching tires, a metallic collision, and the deathly finality of flesh on concrete. The rage he thought he'd lost onstage swept over him like a breaking wave and dragged him underneath a tide of anger soured with fear.

Colin slammed the trunk, and then found himself in the driver’s seat with no memory of the seconds between. He grit his teeth, grinding them loudly, and tightly gripped the steering wheel. It became his anchor for a single pregnant second until he saw Scott reflected in his rear-view mirror. The Boiler Room’s door was swinging behind him and he was running in Colin’s direction.

Leaping into frenzied action, Colin sought his keys, fighting back a knot of panic nested like a coiled snake in his stomach. He twisted the ignition, the car sparked to life, and Colin pealed from the parking lot, catching only half of Scott’s angry scream:

“FUCK--!”

Tiny specks of water dotted Colin's windshield as a light rain began to fall.

~~~~

It was rage that endured as Colin sped down unlit streets, outlasting fear and memory. The rage turned inwards, feeding upon itself, burning away anything that might hold it in check. Colin never knew anger like this; he hadn’t thought himself capable of it. He hadn’t thought himself capable of murder, either.

The body in the trunk belonged to Sandy Fillipo, the man who’d raped Colin’s sister. Colin remembered that night only as a series of empty conversations with the words torn out. Everything else was gone, blasted away by the trauma of knowing. He couldn’t remember how he’d heard or who told him or what he’d been doing when it happened--that night was only the formless source of the fury that now gripped him.

Colin knew he’d fucked it up, way worse than he thought possible, because the unexpected had made him sloppy. He hadn’t intended to run Sandy down--it should have been cleaner than that. Colin’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, twisting against the old leather. It should have been slower than that.

Colin didn’t think there was anything that could tear his mind away from his toxic anger until it was obliterated by flashing red and blue: The lights of an approaching cop played across his dashboard. With fury gone, terror flooded in to take its place. Colin slowed, praying to any god that would hear him he’d get to watch that cruiser pass. The cop slowed to match his speed.

Colin hanged his head, shaking, as he pulled to the side and slowly brought his truck to a halt. Trembling fingers reached the ignition and killed the engine. He sagged in his seat, pale faced and desperate, clinging to the futile hope that he might yet escape capture. He watched the cop open his door and step out of his car. As big and imposing as any man had a right to be, the policeman walked with a confident swagger that exuded Southern authority. He stopped beside Colin's door and waited for him to roll down the window.

"License and registration, please," the officer said once Colin had done so. It wasn't the first time he had heard this from a cop, but tonight the words held a uniquely threatening air that spoke to the secret in Colin's trunk.

Fumbling, Colin searched for paper and plastic then handed them over. Summoning what strength he could, he asked in a voice that barely rose above a whisper, "what... uh... what's the... uh... problem, sir?" Colin cringed when he heard himself stutter and grope for those simple words, and again prayed he wouldn't be asked any difficult questions.

"You were speeding, Mr. Shaw," the cop stated flatly as he inspected Colin's license. Looking up, the officer paused weightily. "And your windshield's cracked." He leaned in further, nostrils flaring as he sought the odour of dope or alcohol. His forearm rested against the base of Colin's open window. "Why's your windshield cracked?"

His mind a torrent of useless excuses, Colin grasped for the one he figured made the most sense: "Deer," he answered. A deer. In Texas. Colin knew it to be better than 'the body in the trunk,' which was the only other answer he'd found in time. Looking to the cop, Colin saw with clarity that 'deer' wasn't good enough.

The cop stood tall and took a step back. "Get out of the car, Mr. Shaw. Keep your hands so's I can see 'em." He offered a snide smile, one that begged excitement and dared Colin for it. "I spook easy."

Colin's legs were like water. He hadn't been drinking and the drugs weren’t the kind that would matter, but he doubted his ability to keep his bladder in check let alone his chances at a roadside sobriety test. Fighting weak muscles and rubber joints, Colin opened his door and clambered from the vehicle. He didn't move far, giving the truck just enough berth to swing the door shut before nonchalantly leaning against its rust-spotted hood.

"Say it again," challenged the policeman, advancing to bring his eyes in line with Colin's. "Tell me again why your windshield's cracked." When Colin didn't answer, groping for words that wouldn't come, the cop sneered and advanced further, backing Colin against the driver's side door. "It's been a rough night. That's funny shit. Say it again and I might be keeping you around for a bit, you know, keepin' it--"

The snick of a door latch interrupted the officer. Both men turned, surprised, and Colin watched with sick disbelief as his trunk opened wide. It was only then that he felt keys in his hand. He looked down in bewilderment. Trapped under the white-knuckled pressure of his own thumb was the remote release to his own trunk. Colin let go of the grey, rubber button and blinked into the cop’s curious stare. His keys slid slowly from his grasp. They clattered to the ground.

The policeman stepped behind the open trunk and craned his head to look inside. Colin followed. The corpse was uncovered, glassy eyes staring skyward, obscene in its naked visibility. Colin eyed the abandoned lots to either side of the road and contemplated a mad dash into the darkness, weighing a life in prison against one on the run.

Reaching up with one arm, the cop casually shut the trunk and turned to face Colin. "Get yourself to an auto shop when you can, sir. Speeding while you can't see out your front window's gonna get you stopped by more cops than just me."

Later, Colin would vainly try to remember what he was thinking during the seconds that followed. He was only ever able to remember the words he spoke, words that would forever represent his perilous brush with insanity. He would think of them as a last ditch struggle for understanding -- even at the cost of his own freedom: "There...", then, "wait," then, "but there's a body in the trunk."

"No, there isn't," the policeman said, then turned towards his car. Colin met the cop's retreating back with dumbfounded silence. He didn't move, didn't breathe, until the policeman had left and the bright redness of his rear lights had faded into a twinkling dot on the dark, distant horizon.

~~~~

Canal St. Subway Station

New York City, New York

Years before, when the world still took pride in the work of human hands, the locomotive was a symbol of achievement. It was the stuff of motion and the stuff of life, a testament to the power of human ingenuity and all of its realised potential. Tastes change. Today, people didn’t care about the stuff of life. Death had become the norm, and darkness had grown alluring. The subway traded its importance for something else, something sinister. Perhaps it was Hollywood’s fault, exploiting it as the dark bedroom closet of an adult’s world, a modern replacement for a midnight graveyard grown campy and comfortable through simple overuse. Perhaps the newspapers were responsible, selling what crimes were committed here as if the darkness of the tunnels was to blame. The sounds were unique and ubiquitous: the third rail's quiet, background hum, the squealing of brakes, the ever-present din echoing down from the world above. Sinister though it was, Eric was well accustomed to this modern system of impersonal trains and pitch-black tunnels.

A strong gust of wind rustled the pages of yesterday's paper, quietly informing Eric to the arrival of yet another train. Standing briskly, the newspaper forgotten on the bench beside him, Eric stepped forward. The doors opened with a hiss and a soft chime.

The subway was surprisingly busy for almost two in the morning, every bar and club in the city reaching last call at roughly the same time. A great difference existed between the subway during the day and the subway at night. Then, businessmen and businesswomen, anxious to return home after a long day's work, filled the subway to capacity. Eric preferred the night. Usually, the subway was nearly empty. At two in the morning it was almost packed.

A pair of empty seats greeted his roving eye upon entering the cabin and Eric immediately took them both: one for himself, and one for the black duffel bag he carried. Inside were all of his worldly possessions, and something even more important: Inside was the secret he had sacrificed everything to protect, information he would give his life to see in the proper hands.

Eric's head drooped against the window, an advertising poster just outside conveniently existing as an anchor for his wandering attention:

"GOT MILK?"

It was soon gone as the subway accelerated, swallowed in blackness as the tunnel engulfed the train. Eric blinked as a lone light swept by. He ran a hand through greasy hair, then down over the stubble peppering his cheek and chin. He needed both a shave and a shower.

The knowledge was met with a grimace, for there was no way Eric could have either. He was out of money and had nowhere to go – nowhere safe, at least. Taking a shower at the homeless shelter he was heading for was out of the question for it required leaving his belongings unguarded. The volunteers were well meaning, but they couldn't be trusted to remain vigilant over something so important.

Slowly, the hypnotizing jostle of the subway's motion and the flickering, fluorescent light above lulled Eric into the past. Six months ago, everything was so simple. Maybe not perfect, maybe not everything he'd dreamed his life would be at thirty, but it was simple. Maybe he never did earn enough money for a Porsche. Maybe the law firm he dreamed of had devolved into a singular unethical practice that, despite all his self-justification, amounted to little more than ambulance chasing. Maybe his comfortable three-bedroom house with that white picket fence of success became a two-bedroom apartment after all. Sure, his life wasn't what he had dreamed of. Eric hadn’t known it then, but the simplicity made him happy.

Six months later, nothing was simple anymore. His practice was gone. His wife had left him. He'd sold his apartment and drained his bank accounts. These days he lived in hotel rooms or homeless shelters or, when a mark was particularly wealthy, an apartment for a few weeks. He never stayed in one place. He couldn’t, not since--

“Hey, dude.”

A voice came from somewhere beyond his reverie, drawing Eric back to the here-and-now. An indistinguishable shape leaning over him reflected in the subway window, swaying from side to side under the influence of the cabin's movement.

"Dude," the voice repeated. "You okay?"

Eric turned his head, squinting as the brazen fluorescence of the subway interior assaulted his vision. Looking up, his bleary gaze was met by that of a greasy teenager, maybe seventeen years old, staring down at him. The mask of concern he wore was obviously unfamiliar, a momentary lapse in the imposing image his lanky hair, bulky clothes and wallet chain was meant to present. One of those roving lights, darting past, streamed in from the subway window and brushed the kid's chin. The subway's brakes squealed audibly and the boy's body sagged under the weight of the sudden deceleration.

Eric was decidedly not okay. He was exhausted. In typical superficial affirmation, he merely nodded his head. "Yeah," he finally spoke, his voice carrying a little more annoyance than he intended. The teenager immediately bristled, the mask of concern fading. "Yeah," he repeated, softening his tone, straightening in the red bucket seat he'd been occupying for the past few stops. "What do you want?"

"I want to sit down," the teen replied hotly, eyeing the seat next to Eric with distaste. Glancing over, Eric grimaced at the black duffel bag. Fuck.

"Ah. Sorry," Eric grunted dismissively in response, motioning vaguely in the direction of the floor. The teenager--Alex, by the look of the A-L-E-X necklace he wore around his neck--bent over and picked up the duffel bag, grunting under its surprising weight. "Shove it underneath," directed Eric.

"Christ, what the fuck's in here?" Fortunately, the clanking of metal within was vague enough - even as the duffel bag hit the floor. Grunting demonstratively, Alex roughly thrust it under the overhanging seat and dropped unceremoniously into the chair.

Eric yawned, reminding himself how tired he really was. He needed sleep. The subway's slow deceleration ended at the next stop along its route, the automatic doors opening to admit the countless nightly patrons anxious to find their way to their safe, welcome homes. Eric ignored them, even as one man latched onto the support bar a few feet above his head. He stared hungrily at the window, yearning to be swallowed, once again, by the stuff of memory.

"So, what's your name?" Alex had turned somewhat, propping his head against his arm, the elbow of which rested comfortably on the back of the seat.

Eric allowed a soft hiss of air to escape from between pressed lips. He didn't want to talk. He wanted to sleep. "Eric," he answered absently. It wasn't for a few seconds that he realised he'd given his real name. He never gave his real name. His defences rose; he would not let fatigue get the better of him tonight.

"I'm Timothy," the kid responded, earning a glance at the necklace from Eric. The kid's head lowered, and he smiled. "Alex is my girlfriend." This earned another tired glance from Eric, this time at the bulky clothing, unkempt hair and silver wallet chain. "Yeah, I suppose I don't look the part. Whatever." Al—-Timothy was remarkably adept at gauging Eric's thoughts. "So," Timothy continued, his voice slightly unsteady in the face of Eric's determined silence, "you got a home?"

The silence continued for a few more moments. Finally Eric lazily shook his head. "I did," he responded. "I had a wife, too, and a job. And a shower."

Timothy laughed out loud at that. "Yeah. That kinda sucks--for both of us." Timothy wrinkled his nose playfully. Eric couldn't help but smile as well. The kid’s good cheer was contagious and his mischievous grin opened great fissures in the social bulwark Eric had erected around his thoughts and words. He hadn't smiled in a long time. Even so, he remained quiet. Sure, Eric told himself, the kid was good at lifting spirits. Didn't change the fact that Eric hadn’t slept in two days, or the fact that nothing mattered more than what was in that black duffel bag.

The kid wouldn’t let up. "So what did you do? How'd you end up like this?"

"I was a lawyer." Eric managed to lift his head away from the window's welcome support, his eyes finally relaxing as he grew accustomed to the bright light. He tried to gauge the kid's reaction as adeptly as the kid had read him. Timothy wore his thoughts on his sleeve: He was obviously stunned.

"A lawyer? I didn't know lawyers could become ... uhm ... could lose their home. There can't be many like you around. Did you lose your license? Or whatever it is you need to ... to be a lawyer?" Timothy had taken to lazily playing with the lettered chain around his neck, idly twirling the 'X' between his thumb and index finger.

Eric nodded perfunctorily. "I skipped some court dates," he offered by way of explanation.

"Wow," Timothy exclaimed immediately, smacking Eric's knee. Eric flinched at the touch, but Timothy seemed not to notice. "That was five words. You’re doing better." He chuckled again.

"Look, kid,” Eric began. “I'm tired. I've been awake for two days, and I’ve got a shelter to look forward to."

"Shacking up in homeless shelters working out for you, then?" The 'X' stilled, Timothy's head cocked with interest.

"Interesting people, I guess," Eric responded. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a conversation like this. Wait. Yes he could. Of course he could: Six months ago. 'The last time' for everything seemed to be six months ago, give or take.

"Yeah. I guess," Timothy parroted. He quieted after that. Tired of doing all the work, Eric supposed. He was surprised at how disappointed the end of the conversation made him, at how suddenly he wanted it back.

Again Eric wrapped himself in silence. The black window, pierced savagely at regular intervals by the shining lights in the tunnel's darkness, drew him in. He leaned his head against the glass, the soft vibration calling him to sleep once more. The subway slowed and the window's blackness took on the artificial, yellow glow of an approaching stop.

"Why is this place so busy this late? I’m not giving my seat up to some old lady,” Timothy said through a smile as the train was coaxed to a stop. “If she’s young enough to be out this late, she’s young enough to stand.” Eric barely lifted his head, intending to offer little more than a glance of acknowledgement, but a careless look towards the kid’s necklace saw... something.

Immediately Eric cursed his stupidity, his relaxed guard, his weakness and lack of discipline. It was something he’d seen time and time again, something he should have expected. Six months ago, that something cost him his job, his wife and his home. It had stolen his simple life and left a broken nightmare of violence and fear in its place.

For only a moment, Eric’s eyes were open. One moment was all he needed: The letters of Timothy’s necklace spun, rearranged, gave birth and died in the split second it took Eric to digest what he was being shown.

‘ALEX’ to the woman on Eric's left, to the newly arrived drunks, to every single one of the other passengers, but something else to Eric, and something else to Timothy. It was a name Eric recognized, a name he knew to be a threat. Only a Shepherd would wear that name. Only a Shepherd could hide it in plain sight.

Eric led his thoughts down paths of power. The fluorescent light above stopped flickering and swelled, along with the other lights lining the cabin. The increased illumination was subtle, yet a few of the passengers lifted their heads. A smirking know-it-all turned to the woman beside him (girlfriend? sister? stranger?) and offered an explanation he'd clearly concocted on the spot: "The subway stopped, so there's a better connection to the second rail. You know, the electrified one that powers everything."

They didn't know the truth. They couldn't know the truth, for that was the way things were. Why could Eric see things that others could not? Why must he know Timothy for what he was? Why couldn’t he, too, lose himself to blindness and live, ignorant of the wolves in the shadows?

“Just in the nick of time,” Timothy whispered, idly twirling the ‘V’ between his thumb and index finger. His eyes met Eric’s with a flat, shark-like stare, void of humanity, a soulless force of nature that only Eric could see. His smile, once cloaked in good cheer, was now the smirk of a ruthless predator. He reached under the seat for Eric’s bag.

“No,” Eric began, eyeing the people around him. They couldn’t see the Shepherd, but they could see Eric. As long as they could see Eric, he was safe. The Seal was not.

“Yes,” Timothy hissed defiantly, pulling the bag into his lap and cradling it in a way that told Eric he knew its value. Somehow, he knew its value. That cold revelation drove a knife of terror into Eric’s chest. He stood abruptly. The man standing in front of him sagged against the woman behind him to make room. To him, there was an empty seat beside Eric, for his eyes were closed to the Shepherd. He wouldn’t even wonder at the empty seat in a packed subway--he couldn’t, for that was the way things were.

“Careful, dog,” Timothy said as slender, adolescent fingers cracked the metal lock and drew open the duffel bag’s zipper. He leered upwards, rubbing Eric’s face in his own powerlessness. “Their eyes are your sanctuary. Do not close them by being rash.”

The Shepherd laughed the sound of restless eternity and pried the bag open to look inside. “Ooooooh,” he cooed, vicious and mocking. “What have we here?”

“I can’t let you win like this,” Eric whispered, “not here, not tonight, not ever.” Six months of his life surfaced, unbidden, and Eric learned the answer to every ‘Why?’ he’d ever asked. “You know that to be true,” he said in sorrowful resignation.

“Yes, I do,” Timothy said through a razor-sharp grin. He set the bag down. His body tensed in anticipation. “Do it,” he demanded. “Close their eyes and we’ll see who’s worthy.”

The lights dimmed, Eric lunged, and he was lost to the eyes of men.

<end chapter one>

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  • 1 month later...

So I finally read your story. Stylistically you are a good writer definately. In terms of plot, I await to find out if Colin and Eric will ever meet. And what actually happened to Eric on the subway and why the cop let Colin go. But you're a good writer.

Americo.

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