New World Order Read online

  But I thought—

  “Xander,” Father Tennesen’s eyes are on him, knowing and… impatient? If not for the irritation bobbing like ugly clumps of mud in the priest’s aura, Xander would pass the expression off as a trick of the light. But there it— “… your vows.”

  It feels more like a command.

  Xander obeys:

  “Oh… uh, yeah—I mean ‘yes,’” there is a soft round of chuckles from the audience as Xander shivers under the weight of the attention that falls upon him, and his shaky hands fight to pull out the numbered index cards that wore his scribbled handwriting. Getting his trembling fingers under control, he takes a moment to draw in a controlled breath and gazes into Estella’s beaming blue eyes—they still have him trap… held in the serenity of the moment. There is a tremor on his nerves, but a tiny voice in the back of his mind reminds him it’s all foolish—random; not important—and he calms soon after, a smile spreading across his face. “God damn, you’re so beautiful—sorry,” he glances at Father Tennesen long enough to get a passive wave for forgiveness. Something in the gesture seems wrong; like it was somebody else’s body motioning for him to go on and Tennesen’s head was only along for the ride. He shakes the thought away and says, “There are a lot of words that come to mind about marriage, and when you’re a man, those words are sometimes… inappropriate for a ceremony.”

  The crowd laughs, but it feels canned; the pre-recorded, forced laughter of a sitcom.

  I’ll take ‘bullshit delusions’ for three-hundred, Alex.

  When did I ever watch—

  ON WITH IT!

  “I’m not that sort of man,” Xander continues, ignoring his random, unimportant thoughts, “but I do find that the words that come to my mind are still inappropriate—words like ‘shame’ and ‘failure’ and ‘disappointment.’”—Try “lost” and “oblivious” and “exposed!”—“But these are words of worry that bounce around in my head already,”—and rightfully so!—“and I wanted to catch the word that best described this moment.”—Fake! Fake! Fake!—“And now, before”—FAKE!—“friends and”—DEAD!—“colleagues, I can say with certainty that the word is ‘strength.’”

  Says the numb-nuts too dense to—

  I’ve had about enough of…

  He pauses a moment, taking in another breath and calming his tensing nerves.

  Random and unimportant, he reminds himself. Random and unimportant.

  That’s right. Good. Good.

  “I know that many of you were thinking that I was going to say ‘love,’” Xander reads on, “and while we’re certainly in love, I think there’s more to this moment. This is about taking pride in the strength we’ve shown so far and preparing ourselves for the strength we’ll need…” He catches sight of Estella’s face, sees the love there in her face, but notices there’s no tear.

  There was a tear—a shimmering tear—the first time I… he trembles. Oh…

  Don’t. You don’t want to do this. You know what happens if you go down that—

  I know, Xander’s trying so hard not to cry now. I know. I’ll be good. Just give me—

  Done.

  He catches sight of Estella’s face, sees the shimmering beginnings of a tear in her left eye and he feels his own throat knot…

  Exactly like it did before.

  Swallowing the tightening sensation, he pushes on, carefully slipping the topmost index card to the back of the pile to continue reading:

  “Strength to grow.”

  “Afraid not, son,” his father’s voice says sadly in the back of his mind.

  “Strength to stand together.”

  “BULLSHIT!” Marcus’ voice roars in his head.

  “Strength to overcome whatever dumb bastards might stand in our way.”

  “Not like this,” Stan says aloud, and the room erupts into chaos as everyone turns on him, telling him to be silent. The Council guards are upon him, their auras snapping out and filling the room, flooding it, and—

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” Father Tennesen’s voice booms, and Xander can’t remember the last time he’d ever heard the old priest sound so loud and boastful. “IT GIVES ME GREAT PLEASURE TO BE THE FIRST TO INTRODUCE YOU ALL TO MISTER AND MISSUS XANDER AND ESTELLA STRYKER!”

  But I didn’t finish, he thinks, looking down at the unused notecards containing his vows.

  You’ll be finished soon enough.

  Of course…

  Married—finally married!—and Xander had spent most of the wedding lost in thought and worrying about… what? He looks around, sees all his friends and family standing, applauding, and, in a few cases, crying. He can only hope, like with his mother, that they’re tears of joy. He hates the sound of his mother’s crying, has always hated it.

  He frowns, not sure when was the last time he legitimately heard her crying. It seems such a familiar sound—somehow even more familiar than her own face, though this seems impossible with her right in front of him—but he can’t for the life of him remember why; can’t remember the last time he’d heard her crying, or, if a memory can be dredged up, it’s certainly not recent or relevant enough to make it something that should be so familiar.

  “Perks of the job, eh son?”

  Xander’s eyes widen, and it’s all he can do to keep from dropping to his knees. He sees it happening for the first time all over again, cast against the scene before him—a movie that’s all projection and no screen—and, though it’s an impossible vision (his mother is right there, after all) he somehow remembers it all too well:

  He watches, powerless, as Kyle—How the hell do I know who that is? Xander wonders as he watches the man… no, the auric—looks over his shoulder at his friends.

  “What do you say we have a little ‘down time’ with Emily here before we get to business?”

  NO! Xander’s knees buckle, and he’s certain that he is about to collapse in front of everyone. Nobody seems to notice the scene that’s playing out all around them—the phantoms acting out a memory that he could have no way of having—and the confused faces occupying the pews are aimed solely at the groom.

  Son? Joseph’s voice distorts over the audio of the five year old, non-existent rape and murder of his wife. Xander can’t bring himself to face him, can’t begin to wonder how such a memory could exist if he’s still alive. What’s the matter? What is it?

  How could it have happened if you were…?

  But Xander can’t finish the question. The ghost of the auric rapist who, in another time and another place, was his stepfather is staring back at him, grinning.

  “This is the life, ain’t it?” he calls to him, transcending time and space in a horrible, impossible way to reach him.

  “You never married her, you son of a bitch!” Xander growls at the vision, and he only realizes he’s spoken aloud to the specter after he hears several of the more sensitive guests gasp at his outburst.

  Father Tennesen clears his throat behind him. “Rest assured, Xander,” he says, his voice sounding impatient; none of the shock the others seem to be showing present, “you are married to her.”

  You don’t want to go down this path, Xander; you know where it leads. You know what you’ll see.

  He’s already seeing a heap of men crawling over his mother, though; watching their leering, scrunched faces twist in glee as they lick at her face and begin to tear at her white gown.

  But it wasn’t white, he thinks to himself, finally dropping to his knees as he remembers the red and purple dress that was destroyed on that day.

  A day that doesn’t exist; that cannot exist. Not with all that’s happening around him.

  Dad… he calls out to Joseph, You need to help her; help Mo—

  His eyes dart away from the phantoms crawling on his unsuspecting mother to his father, expecting the great Joseph Stryker to find a way to save his wife. He’s the Joseph Stryker, after all—world renowned auric warrior and, more than that even, Emily’s husband. If anybody could save her it would be… br />
  The scream lodges in Xander’s throat before it has a chance to be born.

  The seat beside Emily—the seat that mere seconds earlier belonged to Xander’s father—is now occupied by a gape-jawed corpse. The skin is dark, nearly black—the color of rotted fruit and spoiled meat. The receding, rancid layer of skin allows the sharp, angry bones beneath to stick out in grotesque clarity; a twisted skeleton wearing a damp sheet of decay sitting beside Emily Stryker, ignoring the assault on her and gaping back at Xander with cold, vacant eyes.

  Eyes that had never even seen his son, let alone been available to watch his wedding.

  God dammit, the thoughts that are more than thoughts curse in Xander’s mind. You Strykers and your arrogance!

  I… I don’t want to see this. I want—

  “Xander?”

  He turns to face Estella, somehow certain that she can—

  Not a witch; never a witch…

  Then… how?

  A shriek of pain shoots out, calling Xander back to the phantom rape of his mother. He watches as a clump of strawberry-blonde hair straight up like confetti from the writhing mound. The men—the memories—continue; twisting his beautiful, innocent mother to their whims, doing anything and everything they can to accommodate their perversions.

  And he’s powerless to stop it; powerless to fight.

  For the first time, Xander can’t fight.

  Because you didn’t fight; because you couldn’t fight, a familiar voice chimes in Xander’s head.

  “Stan?” Xander calls out, too engrossed in the chaos of this moment to commit to thought-speak. “Wh-what’s…?”

  Stan, however, has no problem committing to it as he says, These dominos don’t look right, do they?

  The phantoms, still continuing to satiate their lust, begin beating on their unaware victim. Though Emily remains oblivious of their actions, her body wears the damage all the same. Her dress is all-but destroyed—hanging in tattered clumps here-and-there—and puddles of her attackers’ semen and her blood roll in spiraling clumps down her bruised breasts. She stares, the tears of joy seeming a mockery now, with nothing but concern for her son, unaware of her nakedness or the wounds that continue to spread across her body. A weak smile curves upward, and the light catches on a fresh trail of spit that one of the phantom’s tongues dragged across her cheek. A vase is raised, moved into position, and Xander finds himself reaching out towards her.

  “MOM! LOOK OUT!”

  Emily flinches at her son’s warning, but the mass of painted ceramic falls upon her all the same; just the same as it had before. Her eyes cross—the concerned stare still locked on him; the bewildered half-smile still cocked his way—and the left dips downward, dead, as a thick, furious trail of red begins to burble down the side of her face. She does not fall. She does not cry out. She suffers all the damage of that horrible, non-existent day while staring back at her recently married son all the same.

  “Xander,” Estella calls to him, tugging his shoulder. “Stay with me.”

  You should stay with her, Xander, Stan calls out to him again, but I think you know that staying here isn’t the way to do it.

  ENOUGH OF THAT! the thought that’s not a thought roars, YOU WILL STAY UP THERE, AND YOU WILL DIE! The Council’s guards are on the move again, their bodies and their auras alike seeming to have trouble navigating around the phantom vision that nobody else seems to even be able to see. As the thoughts that aren’t thoughts continue to demand Xander’s compliance, they’re moving in to force it—the bodies enforcing the voice-without-a-voice—YOU’RE LITTLE MORE THAN A SCARECROW NOW, SO BE A SCARECROW AND—

  Oh, be quiet, already! Stan demands, and Xander more senses the flick of his wrist than sees it as his old friend casually casts aside both voice and guards. You said it yourself: Strykers and their arrogance, right?

  HOW IN THE HELL—

  Another dismissive wave; another forced silence.

  I said be quiet, Stan repeats, and the voice and the guards are suddenly gone.

  Reality—this reality—begins to fall away, the walls dimming and fading to a blackness that’s far more vast than the room had been. The floor sinks away, leaving everyone and everything resting on a black abyss. The ceiling sails away into the same infinite void. One-by-one the guests begin to fade away, most dimming out of existence while a select few remain. Further back, an old, one-armed man who’d been silently watching from the rear of the room lingers, the thumb on his remaining arm extending in silent approval as he fades to black. Xander blinks at this, a tickling sense of familiarity making the back of his mind itch. Finally, the old man and any chance of remembering who he is vanishes, and Xander is forced to return his focus to the only things left in the otherwise vast, infinite blackness this world has become. His mother, unwavering despite her injuries, continues to stare back at him as the corpse of her husband, Xander’s father, slumps forward and falls away after the vanishing floor. Behind her, Stan and Depok and Marcus remain. Though his back is to him, Xander knows that Father Tennesen is still with him, as well.

  And Estella.

  Always, ALWAYS Estella.

  These dominos don’t look right, do they? Stan repeats in his head. I mean, they’re prettier to look at, sure, but they’re falling all wrong, don’t you think? Granted, anything would be better than…

  Though nothing is said or done to motivate the action, Xander looks back to his mother. The Kyle-phantom smiles down at her as he retrieves a serrated knife out of the darkness and spins it in his hand.

  “Don’t make me watch this…” Xander begs.

  It can’t be helped, Stan explains. You have to see it now, because you had to see it then. I wish it wasn’t so, lord knows it’s no picnic for me, either.

  “But you’re…”

  Like them?

  Xander’s eyes are driven on their own once again, and he sees Depok erupt into flames—his body becoming a mound of fire that, oblivious to its fate, sits and stares back at him until it flakes away into ash and vanishes into the void. A moment later, Marcus’ head leaps from his shoulders, a soft gasp of blood belching from the oozing, jagged stump of his neck before he, too, vanishes.

  Behind him, Xander hears a series of grotesque pops and squelches, and he resists the urge to turn, knowing that he’d see Father Tennesen lying at his feet in a mutilated heap.

  Yeah, Stan says with a sigh, I suppose I am like them. But that you know that now says a lot, doesn’t it?

  “What does it say, exactly?”

  That you’re more than a scarecrow, for one. And that you’re not ready to die.

  “Then what is all of this?” Xander asks, already knowing.

  This, Stan turns his head to look at Xander’s mother, is a convenient comfort. You’ve got a powerful enemy who’s working to nurture this illusion.

  “Enemy? Illusion? But I don’t…” Xander blinks and shakes his head. “How are you even here like this? How can you break the illusion if you’re dead, too?”

  Stan’s mouth parts to laugh, but no sound comes from it. Not outside of Xander’s head, at least. Oh, Xander, he speaks over the ongoing soundtrack of his own laughter in Xander’s mind, your naivety is still so charming.

  The weight of awareness grows, and Xander’s head sags from it. I’m talking to myself, aren’t I?

  Yes, but now that you have my (Stan’s) powers, it’s something you’ll (I’ll) have to get used to.

  Sounds lonely.

  It will be if you (I) don’t let go of this comfortable illusion and wake up from this nightmare.

  Xander whimpers and looks up at Estella, who stares back down at him with sadness and pity in her eyes. I just wanted Mom and Dad to see her—see us—like this. I just wanted…

  I know, but that’s not the way things happened. And more’s at stake now; a lot more.

  I don’t—

  But the memory of his mother’s death decides to play out its remainder at that moment, and the Kyle-phantom, still g
rinning, holds the knife over Emily’s heaving chest. Then, as if suddenly remembering his unwilling audience, he turns to look at Xander through both time and space with a smile.

  “Perks of the job, eh son?”

  And then the blade dropped.

  And dropped.

  And…

  ****

  The void swallowed all but the body of Emily Stryker as Xander clenched his eyes against the memory and screamed, a red-and-black storm raging around him in an ongoing effort to wash it away; all of it.

  Somehow, though, he still managed to hear them:

  “Oh, God, it’s still alive! Kill it! Somebody kill it!”

  “What if he wakes up? Won’t he kill us all?”

  “Is that the same one from the internet?”

  “What could have done that to him?”

  Then…

  “Xander? Oh my… Xander! XANDER!”

  He drew in a breath at the sound of his mother’s voice, bracing himself for the nightmare of what her face had been turned into. But when he looked up at her, he was delighted to find her just as untouched—every bit as beautiful—as she’d been at the beginning of this dream.

  “Xan-Xander…?”

  “Mom?” his voice was a whimper, and he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest as he tried to speak the words. Knowing why but not prepared to accept the reality of it, he acknowledged that he couldn’t quite see straight anymore. “M-mom?”

  “Xander… baby, what’d they do to you?”

  Xander wasn’t sure what he was saying or why he was saying it. It didn't answer his mother's question, and it only served to birth more questions in his own aching head.

  “My gun,” he said, feeling a lifetime away from her as he struggled to wake up. “He had my gun.”

  It has begun,

  But even the Great Machine is unsure where its cogs will fall;

  Time—the grandest illusion—begins to fracture,

  And they find themselves as one… but not.

  A great loss;

  Personal blame;

  Nothing—utter blackness—a looming goal.

  Pain… such pain.

  They are as they were;

  It was how it is;