Terminal City: Book One in the Terminal City Saga Page 2

  Mr. Underwood stepped into view and nodded his big head. “Need to keep it contained,” he said.

  Simon forced a sharp laugh. “Justify it however you like,” he replied. “At the end of the day, you just like killing people.”

  Mr. Huxley looked at him for a couple long seconds, swiping a drop of sweat from Simon’s brow with his index finger as if to sample it. Simon was drenched in the stuff, his clothes clinging to his arms and legs.

  “Ali Kazmi,” said Mr. Huxley, staring over Simon’s shoulder, staring as if there was something behind him worth staring at— though Simon suspected there wasn’t. “Good kid. Lived in Toronto with his mom and dad and his older sister, Maryam. He liked hockey and video games.” Mr. Huxley’s tone had changed. “Ali was just twelve years old when Jared Snow paid him and his family a visit. But Jared didn’t care about Ali. He didn’t care about Maryam or Mom and Dad either. Jared only cared about two things: himself and necromancy. Everything else was… sustenance, a resource for the taking. Every person, every home. He would kill and steal and kill and steal— over, and over, and fucking over. He felt nothing. He couldn’t. The necromancy had… numbed his humanity. It had consumed him, Mr. Paisley, and in doing so came to consume Ali. He was just twelve years old when Jared Snow murdered him and his family. Murdered him because that bastard needed a place to stay for a week.”

  Mr. Huxley bit off a piece of duct tape and slapped it over Simon’s mouth, locking in his last words. “I’ve let you say your piece, my friend,” he said in almost a whisper, “but you’ve got it all wrong. It’s necromancers who like killing people. I’ve seen too many innocent men and women — children — die at the hands of your kind in ways you can’t imagine.” He spoke softly. “I’m sorry it’s come to this. I don’t want to kill you. I don’t like killing people, Mr. Paisley.” Then he stood back up. “But you give me no fucking choice.”

  Mr. Huxley stepped forward, lifting the jug of gasoline over Simon’s head, and began to pour. He showered his hair, his shoulders, drops splashing Simon’s face, and then the rest of him — his arms and legs, his fingers and feet — until the jug was empty and every part of Simon was slippery and smelled like gasoline. Then Mr. Huxley dropped the container, and it was time.

  The gas was painfully pungent. Worse, some had seeped into Simon’s mouth. It tasted like it smelled— like poison. He didn’t want to die, but he knew this was the end. The thing was, deep down Simon had always figured he was immortal. He didn’t think about it— he didn’t want to think about it. He just felt it, and left it there. Now, for the first time in his life, his immortality had abandoned him, and he was left feeling like some animal meeting its inevitable end. Like he’d been so stupid for not seeing it sooner, for not believing in death even as he practiced in it.

  Mr. Huxley reached into his pocket and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He flicked the lid open and looked inside. “Last one,” he said, fetching his matchbox, the silver one with the cross. Mr. Huxley lit the cigarette. But not Simon, not yet. “I know it might seem unnecessarily cruel,” he said, “burning you alive.” He took a long drag. “But they say if you don’t burn a necromancer, if you don’t get rid of the body, they might come back from the dead. Not sure I believe that myself, but I like to think the fire is… cleansing. That maybe it can burn the corruption out of you, give you hope for Purgatory. But I’m not God.”

  Then Mr. Huxley lit a second match and took a step backward. “Farewell, Simon.” He flicked the small flame forward.

  Simon watched the match spiral through the air, wondering if it might go out before it reached him, not that it mattered now. The rest happened so quickly. The fire landed on his lap then raced toward every trace of gasoline, engulfing every part of him, until the inferno was all he could see or smell or inhale, until fire was his universe and death his best friend.

  They had taken everything from him: his world, his dignity, his life. Everything but his thoughts. Those were still his, at least for a while. Like everyone who dies and goes to the Spirit Realm, Simon would fade into nothingness, into less than a memory. He would fade, and he would fade alone. But for now, even as the fire scorched his flesh, even as he screamed unconsciously, he held onto his mind.

  In the end, it was his ex-wife he thought about. Sharon, who had betrayed him. Sharon, for whose folly he was dying. Sharon, who was still the love of his life. And so he remembered the good times and forgave her for the rest.

  * * *

  Simon Paisley’s body was no longer recognizable, melted into a black and red sculpture that could have been any human being. They all looked the same afterward, thought Mr. Huxley, standing five feet away with an empty bucket in hand. The fire had been put out, but the body was still sizzling. Still hot with life.

  Mr. Huxley slid a cell phone out of his pants pocket and dialed the only number on the contact list.

  After four rings, a woman answered. “He’s dead, I hope.”

  “Simon Paisley’s been taken care of,” replied Mr. Huxley.

  “Good, good. Glad to hear it. Keep up the good work, hun.” She suddenly sounded pleasant, if not a bit condescending, exaggerating her Texas accent as she often did. “But our work never ends, now does it? Your next target is Lester Wright. Mr. Wright has been on our list for quite some time. We have reason to believe he’s somewhere in Terminal City. An informant of ours claims she saw him on a bus.”

  “Terminal City,” he said. “So, you’re sending us to Canada, eh? It’s been a while.”

  “Very funny, Mr. Huxley, but I wouldn’t quit your day job. I’ll email you the details.”

  “There’s one more thing.” Mr. Huxley hesitated.

  “Spit it out, sugar,” she replied.

  “Well, it’s probably nothing, just an empty threat, but Mr. Paisley, he said that Rowland had… returned or something.”

  “Rowland? You’re sure he said Rowland?” She sounded concerned. Mr. Huxley was surprised. She never sounded concerned.

  “I’m sure, yeah.”

  “That is… interesting. Well, don’t worry your little head about it. Just focus on your job, Mr. Huxley.” She hung up.

  Mr. Huxley pocketed his phone a little too aggressively. “Between you and me, Mr. Underwood,” he said, “Ms. Westcott really pisses me off sometimes.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Mr. Underwood.

  “She can be really disrespectful, you know? Not just with me but everyone. She always seems so — what’s the word — dismissive, I guess.”

  “Oh.”

  Mr. Huxley rolled his eyes. “Never mind,” he said. “Can you go fetch the bags? I’ll wait here.”

  Mr. Underwood nodded before wandering off into the darkness. Mr. Huxley listened to his heavy footsteps clanking up the metal staircase at the far end of the room. He listened until he couldn’t hear them anymore. And then Mr. Huxley keeled over, planting both hands on his knees, and began to dry heave.

  Ooowack.

  “Not again.”

  Ooowack.

  “You’re saving lives.” His voice was low and raspy. “You’re doing God’s—”

  Oooooowack.

  Mr. Huxley burped, exhaled, then spat on the ground.

  After a minute of slow, deep breaths, he stood back up, reaching into his coat for another cigarette. When he flipped open the pack, he remembered he was all out.

  Mr. Huxley sighed.

  “Goddamnit.”

  Chapter 2

  I don’t mind the rain. It comes down a lot in Terminal City, that’s for sure, but let me ask you this: is there any city out there more beautiful than Terminal? When the sun comes out, and even when it doesn’t, this city shines. The rain keeps it clean, keeps it shimmering, keeps our pocket of the world perfect. At the end of the day, even a rainy one like this, there’s no place I’d rather call home.

  —Terminal City
Mayor Sandeep Samra

  * * *

  Mason Cross was getting ready to leave. Or at least he should have been. He was lost in his head again, standing idly in his dad’s old library, reading each bookshelf like a page, from left to right.

  Throughout his twenty years on this planet, Mason had often been told that he was very much his father’s son. He’d always hated hearing this, not wanting to be anyone but his own man. Lately, however, it bothered him less— ever since Dad’s untimely death in a car accident.

  That was nine months ago. It was early September now, and a lovely day according to his mother. But Mason was still inside, in a room where he’d spent much of his childhood, reading and writing, drawing and thinking— unraveling his creative ambitions, and there had been many. So while officially it was Dad’s den, really, it had always been Mason’s room. After all, the books here were mainly for show. There were no guilty pleasures or mass-market paperbacks— only unread classics, books fit for a man like John Cross, the brilliant professor, the great writer.

  Soft beams of sunlight slipped past the windowpanes with perfect precision, dappling the floorboards and his father’s oak desk with hues of gold, as if the room itself knew this was goodbye and wanted to look its best.

  Someone knocked. Mason turned around.

  “Mason.” His mom stepped through the door with a book under her arm. She was dressed in a grey cardigan today, the same shade as her hair— she’d only recently stopped dyeing it. “I was rifling through some boxes in the garage…. It’s such a mess in there.” She sighed, shaking her head as if disappointed in herself or— who knows. “Most of it was your dad’s, you know. Anyway, I found this and remembered he wanted you to have it.” She handed her son the thick leather-bound book.

  Mason flipped it over, examining both sides. The book looked old and its cover was plain. He tried to open it and discovered he couldn’t.

  “Oh, there’s one of those, what are they called…” She pointed. “A combination lock.”

  He saw the lock along the fore edge, sealing the book shut. “Weird. What’s the combination?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I thought maybe you would. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You two always did think alike.”

  “Thanks, I guess.” Mason didn’t even know where to begin.

  She smiled at him, inhaling audibly, as if suddenly deprived of oxygen. “I just know he’s so proud of you.”

  She did this a lot: spoke as if her late husband were still around. In her mind, he was. Sometimes she’d tell Mason that his dad had spoken to her in a dream the night before. Mason didn’t believe in stuff like that, but it was her way of coping, so he kept his opinions to himself. Even when she started going to church. Before three months ago, he hadn’t realized she considered herself a Christian. Occasionally, she would ask him to come, but he never did. Her husband, an unrepentant atheist until the end, would have been more outspoken were he not dead.

  “Anyway,” said Mason, “I’m all packed now.”

  “Is your stuff in the—”

  “Yeah. Everything’s in the car.”

  “Okay.” She hesitated. “I’ll get my keys.” She walked out slowly.

  While his mother fetched her car keys, Mason went to the bathroom for no other reason than to check his reflection. For a while, he tried to convince himself that the face staring back at him was an adult’s. As usual, it was to no avail. He used to believe turning twenty would make him feel like a grown man. Now, with his twenty-first birthday just around the corner, he was hoping that moving out would do the trick.

  Mason headed downstairs to his mom’s car, the nicer of the two in the driveway. He wasn’t taking his own vehicle, a boxy brown Volvo that once belonged to his dad, because he wouldn’t need it where he was going.

  Tomorrow, Mason would begin classes at Carwin University, Terminal City’s premier institute of higher learning. Woo-wee. It was also where Mason’s father had worked (as a tenured professor of Latin and linguistics). He’d often wondered if that had helped his application, if they had taken special pity on the son of a departed professor. In truth, up until about nine months ago, Mason hadn’t been sure he would ever go to university. He’d successfully avoided it for three years, not wanting to follow in his father’s footsteps, as if that would have been too easy or something. But Mason had grown tired of mundane jobs, and he missed his dad.

  The heavy book in his hand stirred up memories of his father, but then so did most things. He glanced at its unassuming cover and wondered what he might find inside.

  The book wasn’t all his father had left him. In his will, John Cross had left his son a house— a rather conveniently located one, in fact, right at the edge of Carwin’s campus. The home was old and big, and it might have been beautiful if not for the overgrown hedges and chipped paint. It had been passed down three generations now. His dad said it was a family heirloom. That seemed to be his excuse for keeping it. The truth was John had done most of his writing in that house— presumably in peace and quiet, away from his family. But now it belonged to Mason, and today it would become his new home.

  “Are you sure you have everything you need?” his mother asked, locking the front door.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “I’m sure.”

  She had a bouquet of flowers tucked under her arm, purple lilies this time. Mason didn’t need to ask why. His dad’s grave was on the way.

  They got into the car. She was driving. From the passenger seat, Mason reached into the back and dropped his new book into an open cardboard box packed full of dishes that didn’t match. Scribbled on the box in messy black felt was the word FRAGILE. He should have heeded his own warning. The book landed with a crunch.

  “Shit.”

  His mother looked at him, eyebrows furrowed, as if that shattered cup might be a sign of things to come now that he was on his own.

  “It’s fine,” said Mason.

  She shook her head and started the engine.

  They took the highway. Terminal City was an hour’s drive from Sanford, the town in which Mason had spent most of his life. Honestly, he couldn’t believe it had taken him this long to finally escape. He was more excited than he let on.

  Mason hung his arm out the window and watched trees go by— and occasionally, another car passing them. His mother had always been a slow driver, but after her husband drove himself into a tree, she became an even slower one.

  As she turned off the highway, it began to rain. “I hope it doesn’t rain all day.” She switched on the windshield wipers. “It was so nice this morning.”

  “Rain can be nice too,” replied Mason.

  “Well, I prefer sunshine,” she said.

  “Ah.” He continued staring out the window. Their conversations were never long.

  It was pouring by the time they reached Terminal City. Mason liked coming here. He’d always felt he was a city person deep down, though he’d never actually lived in one. Terminal was a modern metropolis, its teal glass skyline clustered along the oceanfront like a crown of inverted icicles. And cranes— lots of cranes. It was a growing city, gentrification showing its polished fangs on every street corner— a café here, a brew pub there. If anything was going to stop Terminal City, it was nature, crammed as it was between two endless bodies: the blue-green mountains to the north and the ocean to the west.

  “Do you see that?” his mother asked, pointing upward.

  Mason turned his gaze downtown, just beyond the river that cut through the city’s core. “The big tower?”

  “I read in the paper that it’s already the tallest in Terminal City,” she said. “I think it’s supposed to open next spring. I forget what they’re calling it.”

  “The Apex.” He’d read the story too. The skyscraper was a contemporary monolith, its glass body twisting upward like licorice.

  “That
’s it. Must be quite the view up there.” The car was slowing down. “I’ll just be a second,” she said, unsnapping her seat belt, “unless you want to join me.”

  They were idling outside his father’s cemetery. Mason could see his grave through the window. “That’s okay,” he said.

  His mother didn’t press him on it. She grabbed her umbrella and the lilies from the back seat, and then she stepped outside. She was quick, like she said. Mason figured she just wanted Dad to have fresh flowers. It was her way of showing she hadn’t forgotten. And perhaps something more: He saw it in the way she moved, her fingers sliding down the flower stems as she propped them against his father’s grave— it was the closest she would ever get to touching him again.

  * * *

  Unlike downtown, Carwin University was mostly deserted when they arrived. Mason liked it here too. The buildings were a mishmash of old and new, from modern-day glass towers to century-old Neo-Gothic halls. Although he didn’t like the ones that looked like concrete bunkers— brutalism was just too drab, even for Mason. Thankfully, there were trees everywhere, dotting and surrounding most of campus. It meant you couldn’t see the downtown skyscrapers from Carwin, but it was peaceful— for now.

  They pulled into the driveway of Mason’s new home. The house sat on the edge of campus, in a cul-de-sac surrounded by other, much nicer properties. His was the neighborhood’s black sheep, the one whose front yard had grown into an unruly jungle. He told himself that he would fix the place up, but he knew deep down that was probably a lie.

  Mason stepped out of the car and into the rain.

  “Your jacket is in the trunk,” his mother said, turning off the ignition.

  He sprinted to the front door — at least the porch was dry — then fished out a silver-colored key from his pocket. He struggled with the lock — it was old, like everything else in this house — until finally it clicked. “Stupid thing.”

  The floorboards creaked as he stepped inside. It had been a year since his last visit, but everything still looked the same, as it had for decades (his father always had better things to do). The clocks, however, were an hour behind— the only sign that anything had changed.