The Final Freedom Chapter 8: Phantasm
Right turn, right turn, left turn, right turn. Each time Claes turns, the pursuer's calls seem to die down. However, after it rounds the last corner, you realize it is still in close proximity. Moreover, Claes seems to be pausing at each T-intersection off the main hallways. She will round the corner, stop for a heartbeat, then turn around and keep running along the main passage.
It's making you motion sick.
Just as you're about to ask her why she's wasting time like this, she stops and gently lowers you. "Okay, this is it."
"What do you mean?"
"This is where we wait for it." Gracefully, she lowers herself to one knee and points the pistol down the short hallway.
You back up and reach for what you know is there. Bars. You're backed up against another cell. "But we will just have to run away again."
"No, I have an idea. Two really, but let's go one at a time. You're having a hard time getting your fireball and forceball to hit at the same time, right?"
You nod, though in darkness, there's no way Claes could see you with her flashlight pointed down the hall and you standing behind her.
Still, she continues. "Have you tried launching just one?"
"One at a time?"
"No, just one. Can you mix the two together?"
"Uh, I don't know." You flex your fingers.
"You won't until you try." The Doctor's cry seems just around the corner.
"O-okay." You relax your mind. You don't completely yield control, but you pry free the tensed tendons formed by fear of losing your sense of self. You breathe deeply and feel the odd sensation of your body moving without your conscious volition.
Your right hand forms a fist.
Your right arm hauls itself back, touching your curled little finger against your hit.
Your fist flies forward, a half turn as your arm extends.
As you do so, you step forward with your right foot and turn your torso to your left.
A blob of flame bursts from your fist and hurls down the short hallway. It strikes the far wall, the very center of the pool of light.
And, you hear the sound of stone-on-stone.
"YES!"
"Do you think you can do it again?"
"Give… give me a… second." Your lungs are hollow, but not as bad as before. Still, you hyperventilate a few breaths, then straighten and…
Whoosh. Crack!
Again, center of the circle of light, and again, that welcomed sound. You also begin to notice the sensation of pushing, of hurling something as you do it.
"Are you ready?" Claes' voice has that self-confidence, that resolve back.
"Yeah. Are you?" You smile.
Instead of an answer, she shouts, "Hey! Is there a doctor in the house?!"
Nothing.
Full of nervous energy, you span your fingers from one bar to the next. The stretching motion, the repetition of crawling from one vertical bar to the next, it gives you some release of that bubbling anticipation.
One bar, another bar, another… One of the bars is not circular. It's a thin slab. Oh, the door. You span it, onto the mating strip of metal. The next bar is not in line with the others.
The door is open.
The subtle genius of Claes choosing this particular cell settles on you. If this doesn't work, we can lock ourselves in. Not the best of ideas, but you both will be safe while you practice and experiment.
You are about to thank her for her foresight when a howl pierces your soul.
"Get set." Her voice is now cold, flat, and utterly monotone.
A keening cry fills the hallway as The Doctor rounds the corner.
But it is walking along the wall.
Claes fires three futile shots at it.
You take a deep breath.
It closes. Closer… Closer…
"NOW!" Claes fires again.
You launch.
It falls off the wall and bounces back a stride's length.
What remains of its clothing burns.
It shrieks, then growls.
With that rumbling, a discouraging hiss fills the hallway. You see the fire flicker out.
It rises. It is a single slug of flesh with its head and limbs seemingly randomly attached. In fact, the points where arms join the body seem to move along the body.
Its mouth opens. A cacophony batters your ears. You hear roars, you hear howls. You hear screams, and you hear … laughter?
Yes, a screeching, cackling laughter threads itself through the other cries.
It lurches forward.
Rage presses your temple. Fury narrows your eyes. Indescribable hatred, thrice as strong as any single person can contain, that anger courses from your heart to your arms.
They fly forward.
From them, twin stars shoot forward. They are not flaming, they are simply blindingly white. They streak towards The Doctor, wrapped in invisible spheres of barely-contained kinetic force.
It is knocked against the far wall. The balls make craters into its fleshy mass. It arches, it thrashes. Its hands tear into itself, trying to extricate the incendiary pseudo-matter that scorches it from within. Most of all, it screams.
No more does it howl, no more does it growl. No more does it roar, and no more does it laugh.
It only screams. A multitude of voices, they scream.
One by one, that multitude dies down.
In the end, only one voice is screaming, and it is human.
It is human, and now it is whimpering.
It is now but an almost-inaudible whine.
It is silent.
"YES!" You leap, you clap, you pump your fist in the air. "We did it!"
"Yes. Yes, we did." Claes' voice is no warmer than before. Her light does not waver. She has not risen from the one-kneed firing stance.
"Uh, Claes? Where's your ax?" You struggle to remember where you last saw it. Actually, you struggle to not be unnerved by her inaction.
"I'll get another one from the medical floor after this."
"So, uh, what are you waiting for?"
"For it to move again."
"Oh, like in the movies. We walk past it, and it gets up, right?"
"Something like that."
You make a negligent pushing motion with your left hand and the mass of charred meat, of reddened boils, of torn flesh is pressed against the far wall. "Problem solved."
She still isn't moving.
"Uh, Claes?"
"I'm still waiting."
"If it's going to move, wouldn't it be better if we were, like somewhere else?"
"No, this is where we need to be."
"Huh?"
"This is where it ends. This is where the circle closes."
The steely resolve in her voice is no longer a source of comfort. "Uh, Claes? You're scaring me. You're scaring us."
"Think of it this way. When it moves, do you want it to be where you can see it, where you have it controlled, or somewhere unknown?"
"How do you know it's going to move?"
"Because it will."
You blink. "That's stupid."
"Yes. This whole situation is stupid, if by stupid you mean unexplainable. It defies the laws of science, but it is starting to make sense in its own way. Self-consistency, if you will."
"What?"
"Just give me a minute or two. If it doesn't move by then, we'll go get another ax."
"The hell with that. You wait. I'm-"
"You're the person that needs to see it move."
"You're not making any sense."
"Just give me a minute. I'll explain afterward."
"Okay." You let it drop. It lands and breaks another bone. Another wet, organic crack sickens you.
One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three…
You hear another snapping of bone.
What?!
And another. It stirs.
You lash out with your hand and stamp it against the wall. It squeals and struggles. You start to press. "Okay, it moved. Now what?"
Claes turns to you, and with that motion, the flashlight sweeps away from the pinned mass of inhuman flesh. Your eyes follow it. Stopping, it points at your chest. "I want you to get ready to let go."
"Let go of that?!"
"Let go of that, and of Eighteen and Nineteen. And, most importantly, let yourself go."
"What?!"
"I'm going to show you something, and I want you to see it with the understanding that it means you can let go."
"No way am I letting that thing go!"
She's already turning past you.
You follow the light as it leaves your torso.
It illuminates the cell door. The lock is destroyed. We couldn't have hidden in there anyhow. Why did she-
The flashlight illuminates the center of the cell. Like Nineteen's cell, at the very center is a corpse. Unlike Nineteen, this one is supine. Desiccated skin surround empty eye sockets. Limp, ratty hair is fanned out around her head. Her hands are emaciated, and she barely fills out the white summer dress, the same one you are wearing.
"Oh."
The mass of burnt flesh drops. It does not move.
You look at your hands.
They are glowing yellow.
Claes is now visible in your innate light. She nods. "You can let go now. You were the one keeping them here."
She is wearing a tailored-down military jacket, wool-lined. Her feet are shod in heavy boots, winter boots. You look at the flimsy dress you wear, and realize that much time has passed.
You blink away tears as the shattered memories rearrange themselves. You see it all now, both your life and this afterlife. Worse, you now remember the many times this tableau between you, the Doctor, Eighteen and Nineteen have been played and replayed.
Spirits of the dead. She can call the spirits of the dead. Nineteen's words, said in her raspy voice, reverberate in your mind. I was the one keeping them here. Keeping us here.
You look at Claes.
She gives you a wan smile, and points at The Doctor.
It too is glowing yellow. It too is becoming transparent.
You look at your hands. You hold them up and look through them at Claes. "I'm glad I met you, Claes. Thank you. Thank you for setting us free."
Her voice is distant, soft. "I'm glad I met you too, Sixt…"
The End