Collision Read online

  Calamity

  Collision, Volume 2

  Eric McLaughlin

  Published by Eric McLaughlin, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  CALAMITY

  First edition. July 4, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Eric McLaughlin.

  Written by Eric McLaughlin.

  Also by Eric McLaughlin

  Collision

  Calamity

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Eric McLaughlin

  Dedication

  Beforemath

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  XXXV

  XXXVI

  Aftermath

  Sign up for Eric McLaughlin's Mailing List

  Further Reading: Collision

  Also By Eric McLaughlin

  About the Author

  To my wife. To my mother and father. To Nana. For the first time, for the rest of my life, to Ellie.

  Beforemath

  Someone was screaming. Singer didn’t know who it was or where it came from, but the sound of it cut through him like tomahawks through soft skulls. It ruined his careful meditation. It filled him with aching, desperate dread. An explosion detonated nearby. The air bursting outward tore at the fabric of his hogan until it whipped over his head and was lost in the maelstrom. Exposed to the hell around him, there was nothing to see but fire, only intense heat to feel, only choking smoke to breathe. My family...

  Singer stood and dropped his chin to his chest. He sucked in as much burning air as he could before fearing for the safety of his lungs. He set his teeth, cracked his knuckles, and prepared himself to do what he was supposed to do, what he was made to do. He began to sing.

  As Singer for the People, he was charged with their leadership and their protection. He was the end of the line. He was the answer. The People had a purpose. The People had a directive, and it was Singer’s duty to see them through to that directive. He would not fail.

  He stepped forward, arm outstretched, his voice battling ahead of him like sword and shield. Singer had dealt with fire many times. It was a serious threat, but one he was well acquainted with. He began with all the old tricks. He sang songs about cold places and songs about water. He sang songs about the cooling of red passions and the containing of hot impulses. He sang songs of pacification. For its part, the fire seemed to understand. Where his voice tread, the fire bowed elegantly and dissipated with grace. This was not fire driven by the mind of an enemy. This was natural fire, real fire, as much friend as foe.

  So, the Singer proceeded, marshalling the fire when necessary, pleading with it when he had to, and beating it down to embers when a particularly malevolent gout of flame reared back and tried its best to burn him to cinders.

  Eventually he began to see shapes left in the wake of the flames and he swallowed hard, knowing his worst fears were about to be realized. They were the shapes of human beings, of the People. They laid prone in the gutted remnants of their homes, some clutching the charred husks of loved ones, other’s clutching at nothing but the air with fists melted into misshapen claws and industrious patches of fabric now permanent features of their body, melded into a byproduct of fire and flesh. He recognized them as old friends and young students, as the past, present and future of the People. They were all dead.

  Then the fire began to fight harder, with a fierceness that caught Singer by surprise. It rushed him from all sides and roared in fury. Singer ducked down and sang a cocoon of safety. Green energy quickly surrounded him, locking him in a dome of relative safety. The fire hammered on it, battered against it. Red and orange sparks and bolts of blue energy rained and jumped and sizzled just above Singers head. Every inch became a war for the fate of energy and man alike. He called the wind, but the fire whipped itself into a whirling spout of heat and hate and spun its destructive way toward him until it met his makeshift dome where it fizzled and dispersed. He called water, but the fire boiled it and rained it back down on Singer in torrents. He thought about the faces of the People, melted and blackened and ruined. He thought about his failure to protect them.

  Singer felt something stir deep within his guts, a zapping electric current of rage that coursed through his veins and made his lips peel back from his teeth. He snarled and his song became more like a scream, a battle-cry. He stood, breaking the dome with a tremendous pop. The fire gathered itself a few yards away until it took on the shape of a man. He could practically hear it cackle with glee as it rushed him once more.

  Singer threw his head back and hit notes he’d previously left untouched. The fire turned and fled from him, hands over its ears as water and ice and air burst from Singer’s body and toward his enemy like missiles, chasing down the fire and killing it. Singer lashed about with his music, destroying the very essence of the fire, obliterating it from the fabric of existence. This was no natural calamity, this fire was sentient, sent here by another, he thought when it was just he and the darkness. But who would do this to the People? Who would lead the world after the end of all things now that they were gone? Singer stood for a while in the naked night air, the fire-less dark all consuming, panting and smoking and mourning his People.

  “Daddy?” asked the sweetest voice in the world.

  Singer spotted her just before more flames took up residence between them, became a wall blocking him off from his daughter, his little girl. Next to her was his wife, each of them doing their best to use the songs he taught them to hold the fire at bay. Those songs weren’t enough! If he sang them he could hold armies at bay and make the trees grow tall and the flowers yearn to bloom for him, and yet he still had his doubts this unholy fire would heed the notes. For them the song was barely better than a collection of words and melodies, a keening into the void. The fire crept closer, singing the tips of his daughter’s hair as she screamed.

  That was it. Singer had had enough.

  His voice charged in front of him and dove into the fire with all the righteous, fatherly rage he could bring to bear. It battered at the wall of fire and slashed at it from underneath. It spit and kicked and punched and did all the things a father would do to his daughter’s attacker. It was nothing, the fire didn’t move.

  “Daddy, help! It hurts!” She screamed and her voice was a stabbing knife straight to the heart.

  Singer became frantic. He became a wild thing, a thoughtless, feral thing. The mother bear would pale to see him now! The ancients themselves shook from fear. Singer tore himself apart to break through that wall. He charged into it and the fire crashed over him like wave upon wave in an angry sea. His skin crackled and blackened and split. It was torture. It was agony. It was nothing compared to what he felt hearing his daughter scream. Singer took the last spark of energy within himself, all the love for his family and his people, all the hate he felt for this fire and whoever or whatever had sent here, and whispered it into his cupped hands. He molded it and shaped it and let it grow and grow. When it was as powerful as he could make it
, when he could take no more, Singer clapped his hands together and green energy burst outward from the contact, exploding in a powerful ring away from his body in all directions.

  The fire wavered, candles in the wind, it wavered but held firm, snapping back into place. Singer fell to his knees, unable to fight any longer, feeling death’s hot breath on the back of his neck. The fire gloated, knocking Singer over and roasting the skin off his back in triumph. Then it was gone and all that was left was the smoke, languorously making its way toward the empty sky.

  Raising his head from the dirt was nearly impossible, but he had to know. He saw them lying on the ground, twin monuments to his failure as a leader and a father. He had to know. He crawled on his arms, as strips and clumps of flesh fell from his body and stayed smoking in the dirt. He had to know.

  He found them just as he found the others. They held each other as the tiny flame danced on their skin and invaded their bodies. They were blacker than the night sky. When he tried to hold his daughter’s face in his trembling, ruined hands, it crumbled and blew away in a soft wind.

  Singer shot to consciousness. He was awake. How was he awake? He investigated his surroundings. He was back in his home, in his own hogan. Everything was exactly as it always had been. Sweat dripped from his body and stained the skins beneath him. His wife, the duet of his life snored next to him, clearly unaffected by his nocturnal dance with death.

  Singer escaped the blankets and stepped lightly to the chest where he kept his spirits. The cool night air made his naked skin goose-bump and shiver. It felt good. It was cold after so many visions of fire, and it let him know that he was alive. The chest creaked when he opened it. The glass clinked when removed. The stopper sucked when uncorked. The whiskey tasted good.

  “Awake before the sun and drinking whiskey?” his wife said with sleep thickening her voice. “A dream or a vision?”

  Singer shrugged, his head down, unable to look his wife in the eye lest she see his weakness.

  “What happened?”

  “The world burned. The People burned with it. I found you and Whisper within the inferno but...” Singer had to stop and gather himself. It was a near thing. “I couldn’t reach you. In the end the fire won. We all burned.” By the time he finished talking the Singer was quivering, barely able to keep himself together. The experience of his daughter dying in such a way was enough to shake him to his core.

  His wife rose from the bed and came to him, wrapped her arms around his chest. Her bare skin felt warm and safe against his back. He closed his eyes and tried his best to find peace again, but failed. He took a large sip of whiskey.

  Something appeared at the edge of Singer’s vision—a quick jab of darkness tinged with glowing green, there for an instant, and then gone. The ancestors were here. He thought they might come.

  It does not have to be this way, Singer, said the disembodied voice. One of the privileges of being Singer, if it could be called that at all, was to see and communicate with the spirits of the People after they had passed on. They came only in times of great joy or great sorrow, times of cataclysmic upheaval.

  Speak plainly ancestor. Is this a foretelling?

  Singer’s wife separated herself and looked at him with furrowed brow as though trying to peer inside his head. She could not see the spirits.

  Perhaps. Nothing is certain. Not the most revealing of ancestors.

  What can I do?

  “What are you thinking about?” his wife asked him.

  You must summon He of the Shadows. You must kill Ethan Daniel.

  Singer’s stomach fell out of his body and hit the floor. His jaw ached to meet it. “Nothing,” he told his wife. But it was not nothing. He was to summon He of the Shadows? The Shadowman was what parents called him when they were using his name to scare their children into doing their chores. Singer knew he was all too real. It was no small thing to bring a being like that back from the Other Side. It was no easy thing, and to unleash him on someone he’d never met, this Ethan Daniel person, was not something idly done. It was murder. Could Singer murder someone, even if he knew that not taking a life could lead to the death of his family and people? Even with the stakes so high, he was not sure.

  “Do not lie to me, Singer,” his wife demanded. “I knew you when you were covered with pimples instead of scars.”

  “The spirits show themselves. They say the dream was a portent of things to come unless I summon He of the Shadows and command him to kill someone named Ethan Daniel.”

  Her face went ashen and her mouth became a hole. Her eyes grew so wide he could see the whites. They looked deeply into his. Singer didn’t know if she was testing his resolve or his sanity or what, but her eyes danced from one of his eyes to the next. Back and forth. If she was looking for something she must not have found it.

  “You cannot.”

  “Can’t I?”

  “No, you cannot.”

  “Why not!” Singer yelled, stepping away from his wife as his anger and indignation built. “Am I supposed to let the People’s purpose go undone? How can we rebuild the world after the white man destroys it, if we are destroyed as well? Am I supposed to let the life of this Ethan Daniel veer us from our path because I am not strong enough, or resolved enough to do what is necessary? Tell me, Shoni. One life weighed against many, how does the scale tip?”

  “This is not about the People and you know it,” calmly replied his wife.

  “Of course not! I watched you die!” His voice echoed off the walls of their hogan. It was made of sticks and skins and adhesives from the earth and should have dampened sounds instead of augmented them, but he was a Singer, and his voice still echoed. “I watched you die. I. Will. Not. Allow. That. To. Happen. I will not.”

  She looked at him for another moment. Her lips pursed, and her arms found their way under her breasts where they crossed. She nodded her head once, as though making up her mind. “I think you are better than He of the Shadows, but if you don’t, you lead The People, not I. Come to bed, Singer.”

  But he didn’t go to bed. He couldn’t. The image of his daughter turning to blackened dust in his hands and blowing away in a gentle breeze was fixed to his mind’s eye as if by hammer and nail. He stayed awake while the visions tortured him. He stayed awake until the whiskey was gone and he was still thirsty. He stayed awake until he made up his mind.

  The tools for a summoning were not especially difficult to get together. The methods were simple. All a true Singer needed was something to make up an unbroken circle large enough to fit the being in, an energy catalyst, generally blood or water, but other things would do in a pinch, an object to focus the mind, and lots and lots of single-minded attention. When the image of the summoned was fresh and vivid and as true in the summoner’s head as if they stood before him in the light of day, singing the true name of the summoned would pull them into the circle and keep them their regardless of their will.

  The materials were in a chest in the Singer’s hogan, kept there by Singers passed just in case a moment like this arose. He tip-toed passed his wife to get them and was not proud of it, but times were desperate and her scorn, and most of all her disappointment, would only complicate matters. He walked far outside the village until even the tallest of their fires was not but an orange glow against a backdrop of black. For this summoning Singer got trinkets of all the Shadowman’s victims-beads, knives, drawings, painted rocks, a headdress and more. The items were as vast and arrayed as his victims. Then he tied them together with the intestines of a chicken, and arranged them in a circle. When he thought he was far enough away from prying eyes, Singer brought a ceremonial knife from his right hand and enclosed it with his left, and with a sudden jerk he cleaved a wide gash in the middle of his palm. Singer sucked in sharply through gritted teeth saw his blood spill on the macabre materials. Then he snatched the Shadowman’s focus object, a lock of hair from the child he lost.

  Singer locked the image of the Shadowman in his mind. He had only seen hi
m in paintings and read of him in the texts of his people. Hopefully, that would be enough. He opened his mouth, ready to speak the Shadowman’s true name, but the words were ripped from his lips and his teeth clattered at the force of it. Singer’s stomach shrank and grew cold. He felt as though his skull would break apart at any moment, and he knew the Shadowman was here. The circle filled with a gloom that all but swam with hatred.

  It was everything Singer could do to contain him. The circle hummed and buzzed and zapped every time the Shadowman moved within it. Singer didn’t have long.

  “I command you to kill Ethan Daniel.”

  I will kill you. Then I will rape your wife with the bones I rip from your corpse.

  “For the second time, I command you to kill Ethan Daniel.”

  I will tear your daughter apart and wear her skin like a coat. I will boil her blood and bathe in it.

  Images of his family dying ran roughshod through Singer’s brain. For just a second he faltered and the Shadowman lunged. Singer closed his eyes and tried his hardest to maintain focus. Sweat dripped from his face and his lips squeezed together. When he opened his eyes again, he saw a black hand reaching just inches from his face. He didn’t have long.

  “For the third and final time, I command you to kill Ethan Daniel. He will bring ruin to us all. Now be gone!”

  And just like that Singer was alone.

  He went out and gathered a few sticks and made a fire in the brush. When it was built, Singer burned all of the talismans and summoning materials he had used. When they were not but ash and dust, Singer dug a hole with his hands and buried it. As he walked back to his hogan he lifted his hands and watched them shake as though palsied, so deeply had the Shadowman scared him. He couldn’t go back to bed, back to his wife, not with that scene and those threats and his wife’s last words in his head. Instead, he sat in the dark and he lit a pipe. He sipped at another strong, harsh whiskey. As much out of curiosity as a reason to stop seeing his family dying, Singer wondered who Ethan Daniel was, and he thought about how terribly he had condemned the man to die.