The Void (11 page)

Gravely stood and imbibed as the scene moved around her. It did not move as it should. The world was slowed, as if time itself had been split in half. All was slow motion and when she raised her hands or took a step, it felt like the air was molasses. Only her thoughts ran at full speed.

The breeze that rustled the wheat caressed her hair and made the only sound she heard—that of heads of grain beating against each other. The cabin door was open, but inside showed no light. The doorway had the appearance of a dark maw that might swallow her up, made all the worse by the bright, shining sun above.  

As if to mock her feelings of something sinister within that darkness, a man emerged. Neither his skin nor hair was as dark as they had once been, for age had coated them an ashy white. But even from where she stood, she could tell that his eyes were still bright and strong. She had seen those eyes before. Every day when she looked in the mirror.

But she had never seen her grandfather like this, dusty blue overalls and dirty white shirt underneath, great hands calloused and torn from labor. No, he had been a naval officer. This was another ancestor, from far longer ago, a man who had once been a slave. He looked at her, standing in the midst of the field. She watched him as he slowly turned and she saw, rather than heard, him say something to the darkness beyond.

Then, longer than it should have been, another figure emerged. A woman, once beautiful, but whose youth had been stolen by too many years of bright sunlight and the dirt of the field. Now they stood next to each other, two people from her past and her present and, no doubt, her future.

Her grandfather raised his hand, slowly, inexorably, like it had a weight attached to its end. He was waving at her. The woman joined in, beckoning in slow motion for her to come to them, to join them inside. She could almost hear their voices, telling her that there was lemonade and homemade sweet potato pie. A warm bed with clean sheets where she could sleep away the crushing weariness. She wanted so much to believe that.  And maybe she would have, were it not for the whispers.

They roared from the cabin on a sudden gust of wind that blew at half-speed across the field. She comprehended nothing, but recognized the rhythm and cadence of speech. Then a word she knew, “Caroline,” whispered almost lovingly.

It chilled her, that voice, even in the midst of a sun-drenched field. Her ancestors continued to beckon, urging her to join them. To convince her that it would be all right. There was peace here. And love. She wanted to believe. She had fought against that call for so many years. Every time she came here. Every time she saw the one thing that she never had in life.

But the swirling darkness that waited inside the cabin spoke black truth to that lie. She could feel eyes upon her. Empty eyes.

She started to shake. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and her chest but no warmth came. The two figures on the porch turned and walked back into the house.

“No!” she wanted to cry, but the word would not come. Those two people were not her family. They were a myth, a trick of light and shade. Bait to lure her to her demise.

Caroline fell to her knees. The golden grain swayed around her at eye level, more whispers from their ears to hers. She collapsed down on her side and started to sob. The clouds crawled across the sky. The grain danced in the breeze. And she prayed that whatever waited in the darkness could not abide the light. She was still praying when the scream ripped through the whispers and echoed across the plain.

*  *  *

Jack Crawford was standing in the foyer of what he would come to learn was a grand ballroom. He looked down at himself and rubbed his hands along the stiff fabric of the tuxedo he was wearing, one he had never seen before. All of this was new to him. Jack had done most of his work on-world and the few times he had left Earth, he had stayed within the solar system.

“Well this is different,” Jack said as he fingered what appeared to be a solid gold cufflink on his left sleeve.

Music wafted through the double doors that stood closed before him. He turned and tried one of the exits. Somewhat to his surprise, it opened, but Jack did not leave. His eyes met what appeared to be black smoke. But too thick for smoke. Too solid and consistent. More like a wall of flowing oil. Something about it repulsed him. He let the door slam and he did not think of leaving again. Not till much later, at least.

He turned back to the sound of music. The deeply carved doors were illuminated by an ornate chandelier that hung above, its thousand different crystals both gathering and fracturing the light, throwing it in grotesque patterns upon the wall.

Jack Crawford took a few steps forward and grasped the handles of the double doors. He heard laughter from inside and wondered what he was about to find. He pulled them open and the music and the light washed over him. The ballroom was an appropriate location, for this was a ball. The men were dressed like him in sharp, black tuxes and white ties. The women in ruffled fabric. Gloves with sleeves that stretched all the way to their elbows. Their hair, piled high in delicately placed mounds, always an instant from collapsing like an avalanche down their shoulders.

Jack's stomach twisted in knots and he felt the bile rise in his throat, that uncomfortable wave of nausea that spread over one about to be sick. He looked out over that crowd, trying to understand what it was that made him so uneasy. Trying to remember. For he thought the key was locked somewhere inside, deep within his mind. If he could find it, all of this would make sense.

A gloved arm slid around his neck, but Jack was still too confused to be startled. He looked over to see a woman brushing gold ringlets from her blue eyes, smiling at him.

“Jack,” she purred, “so glad you could finally make it. We've all been waiting for the guest of honor.”

She was familiar and frightening at the same time. What scared Jack all the more was his inability to remember why she was either. She beamed up at him but there was something sinister about those straight rows of perfect, pearly white teeth. There was no joy there.

She released her grasp on Jack's neck, letting her arm slide down his back and around his waist, and then over to his hand, which she took.

“Shall we?” she asked. Jack merely nodded.

“You don't remember me, do you?” she said as they walked down the steps to the ballroom floor.

“I . . .” Jack began.

“It's alright,” she interrupted. “I'm no fool, Jack. I know I wasn't your first, or more importantly”—she laughed—“your last.” She finally ended his suffering when it became clear that Jack was no closer to remembering. “Elizabeth. Elizabeth Akers.”

Now Jack had a name, the familiarity of which matched the face, but did no more to dispel the mystery of who this woman was, where he had seen her before, or what role she had played in his life. She pulled him close to her when they reached the floor and whispered in his ear, “I need to go to the ladies' room. Get me a drink. You know what I like.”

He started to protest, to say that, in fact, he had no idea, but she had already slid away from him, disappearing into the crowd of people beyond. All of whom, he noticed, were eyeing him with some interest and, if he read them right, familiarity.

Jack hesitated, until the voice of a man calling his name pulled him from his thoughts.

“Mr. Crawford,” said the man. Jack turned and saw that he was standing in front of a bar, even though he had no memory of moving to the side of the room in which it sat. “Hello, Mr. Crawford. Such a pleasure to see you again, sir.”

“Again?” Jack said.

“Well of course. I never forget a face. Certainly not yours.”

“No,” said Jack, “I guess in your business that's a good trait to have.”

“Yes, and I suppose in yours it is better simply to forget.”

The man grinned, his salt and pepper black hair slicked back over a burgeoning bald spot, while Jack stared stupidly back at him. Before Jack could say anything else, the man continued. “But this is actually not my trade. I'm simply filling in for the event. Every party needs a bartender, after all.”

“Party?”

“Ah yes. A reunion of sorts, you might say. All in your honor, of course.”

“Of course,” Jack murmured.

“So. What'll it be, sir? As you can see, we have a fully stocked bar. Mixers of every variety and every sort of alcohol you could imagine. I assume you'll be drinking top shelf.”

“I'll take a Manhattan,” Jack said.

“A Manhattan, and easy on the vermouth, I assume?”

Jack frowned. “How did you . . .”

“Just my job, sir. I can tell you are a man who likes his alcohol with a little bite. And for the lady?”

“The lady?”

“Yes, I believe you are with Ms. Akers.”

“Yeah. . . yeah she'll have a . . .” Then it came to him like a clap of thunder. “Vodka gimlet. With a twist.”

“Ah yes, that is her favorite. Classic drink, yes, Mr. Crawford?”

Jack had no idea if that was her favorite or not, nor did he know why that drink tumbled forth into his mind like the bourbon the bartender was now pouring into a glass.

“Here you are, sir, a Manhattan for you and a classy drink for a classy lady. And, Mr. Crawford,” he said, as Jack began to turn, “I do hope that you enjoy the reunion. After all, none of us would be here without you.”

For a space of two seconds that seemed like an eternity, the men stared across the bar at each other. The bartender's eyes told Jack all he needed to know. Most of what he said was a formality, like he had been playing a game. A part, a role that had been given him. But that last bit was true, a bitter truth riding on the bartender’s cold glare to fill the space between them.

Jack turned around and scanned his surroundings. Trying to find something, anything to help him understand what was going on. He knew the dreams sometimes took the form of old memories. Although he searched for a landmark in that great hall, he found none. If this were a memory, it was not one he recalled. If this was a place he’d frequented before, he had forgotten it.

Of course, there were those that speculated that the dreams were visions, pictures of the future. Images of things to come. Jack had never believed any of that nonsense. Jack put his faith in the cold, hard truths of the world. In the facts that could be seen and the things that could be known. A man in his profession didn't think too much about the future. Didn't think much about fate or God's will or the afterlife.

Jack had long been a tool that shaped worlds but he did not like to think of himself as such. He liked to believe that he was what he had chosen to be and that in so choosing, he had been more instrumental in deciding the future than most men would be if they lived ten lifetimes. Jack didn't like to believe in destiny because it detracted from what he was, undermined the power that rested in his hands.

No, fate didn't decide how men's lives would end. Jack did that. And a man like Jack Crawford never liked to feel out of control. In his profession, such a feeling could be fatal. But it was one he could not avoid here, where every person in the room seemed to know his face, yet he recognized no one. But it was just a dream. Just a dream. He would ride it out, and then when he woke, none of it would matter anyway.

He turned and saw Elizabeth gliding toward him. She held out her hand and took the drink from his. She took a sip and the alcohol lit a fire in her eyes. She smiled decadently, saying, “Robert always did make a fantastic vodka gimlet.” She looked past Jack, raised her glass and nodded. Jack turned in time to see the bartender bow slightly in response.

“So you know this Robert?” Jack said, cautiously probing the edges of the mystery, trying to find the common thread that bound all these people together, other than himself.

“Oh, I've known Robert for a while. He was here when I arrived. He helped me, just like he helped so many of us. With the transition. It's not an easy one, you know? Well you wouldn't. But you'll know one day. Hopefully one day soon.” Elizabeth laughed, and the sound of it gave Jack chills.

“Yes,” Jack said nervously. “So . . . what do you do here?”

“Here? Here we wait. We've been waiting for you, of course. To join us. It has been,” she whispered, tilting her head back and closing her eyes, almost as if in unimaginable pleasure, “so long. Longer for some than others.”

The music picked up. He did not know from whence it came; it simply was. As much a part of the chamber as the floor or the ceiling or the air. Or these people.

“Shall we dance?”

“Of course,” Jack answered. Jack's training with the agency had begun when he was very young. His father had been an operative before him. It was a job he was born to do. His education had been wide and varied. Everything from firearms and explosives classes to the social graces. Jack was as well versed in the Argentine tango as the KV-27 rifle.

His training had also prepared him for situations such as this. If you don't know what's going on, play along. The situation will eventually explain itself. It had always worked before, Jack thought. No reason it wouldn't now.

As the others danced around them, Jack looked down at the woman who clung tightly to his neck, black dress hanging low and loose from her shoulders. She was gazing up at him. In her eyes was a mixture of so many emotions that he couldn't make a single one out.

Then that changed. The smile faded. Her mouth began to quiver. Her skin went pale. Fear came into her eyes. She grabbed his shoulder and squeezed so hard it hurt.

“Elizabeth?”

She uttered a pitiful cry and slid down on her knees. She looked up at Jack who stood dumbfounded above her. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Then she released him and fell on her side. Around them, the others danced. The music did not stop. As she lay dying, no one seemed to notice.   

Jack looked down at Elizabeth's motionless body. He considered just leaving her there. No one seemed to care about what was going on, about the dead woman in their midst, and the feeling that he should flee was becoming overwhelming. There was no understanding this situation. Only getting away from it.