Epilogue

You can’t catch a number traveling to infinity. We might attempt to put a label on it. One ninth. Two Thirds. But the convenience of these tags only serves to underscore our inability to truly comprehend the infinite and endless nature of these numbers.

I have a label too.

Indeed, my tag of ‘Edward’ is just that, a label. A focus point with which to grasp the concept of my being.

But I, too, am traveling to infinity.

My ambitions and desires soar past the shackled frame of an identity. These are my dreams. My dreams.

My dreams become the substance of my existence.

Chapter 59

Witticker hurried after Edward ahead of him who was running down the city streets, dodging through ancient automobile carcasses, away from an angry mob dressed in black. The two travelers had begun their escape when their newest pursuers voiced a rather loud ultimatum with which Edward was not immediately prepared to deal.
Witticker huffed and wheezed as he sprinted over and around the steel gauntlets in his path. As he passed through the aged intersections the falling sun peeked between the monstrous buildings, bursting across the landscape and reflecting intensely in the few shiny surfaces still remaining. The sound of heels clicked in cacophony behind him, a deafening battle cry rattling off the building sides.
“Where are we going?” bellowed Witticker, his voice stealing air from his lungs already short supply.
“Don’t know! Come on!” shot Edward’s voice from up ahead.
Witticker jumped up on a heap of rubble and looked back. The streets were enveloped with bodies, like a wall of black water flowing through every crack and crevice of the street. He jumped down and ran towards the next slim opening between two cars, one lifted off the ground at an angle. It was tight and he pushed the angled car forward, slipping into the narrow and forced passage. There was a sudden snap…




































BLOOD





































Witticker pulled himself from the metal vice. He groped at his side which had sprung into pain as the car fell from its angled stance. He looked down to see the place where the sharp edge of the car bumper had sliced into his side only to find a damp circle of red. He looked up in the direction of his companion, the waves of footsteps washing through the streets from behind.
“Edward, wait!” cried Witticker as he lunged forward to follow, only to fall to his knees in pain.
Witticker curled to the ground as his fate began to realize itself all around him. Time slowed down. Every second fell within the speed of a drop of water far above in the sky. The sound of footsteps echoed in every direction, encompassing every open space. When the footsteps finally approached him directly, Witticker sprang up from his fetal position with a violent cry, launching his final attack on the vicious hunters.
His lunge was caught by a strong pair of hands and pulled down. Edward threw Witticker’s arm over his shoulder, meeting him face to face. He pulled him to his feet and hurriedly guided him into the stately building he had collapsed nearest to.
“We might be able to lose them in here,” growled Edward, his breathing labored as he dragged Witticker into the doorway. “There’re a lot of tunnels in here.”
Witticker’s vision swam as he swept through the entrance. He caught sight of a wooden sign as he drifted by. The sign had fallen from its original posting, hanging by an edge on the wall just past the door.


Witticker stumbled as they entered the expansive hall which was dark in the dusk of the day. The ceiling was obscured in shadow, but the injured traveler could tell from the echoes of their steps that it extended very high into that darkness. Edward kicked at the piles of luggage blocking the stairway into the great hall as he guided Witticker deeper into the terminal. The boxes bounced down the stairs, crashing violently onto the thick tiled floor. The great cases burst open, clothing and personals flying across the sprawling floor from the ancient containers.
“We just need to get down to one of those tunnels,” whispered Edward into Witticker’s ear. He repeated the mantra as the rattle of footsteps echoed madly from the street entrance. He pulled Witticker down the stairs, having him balance his unsupported side on the steel hand rail. As they reached the main floor Edward hurried Witticker across the floor towards the information counter in the center of the room.

CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.

The stunning knocks, as if a made by a judge’s gavel, reverberated forever in the massive space. Edward stopped and panned slowly across the room in search of the source. Witticker raised his head from his sporadically conscious state to scan across the enormous hall. In the distance, in the center of the open floor, he made out the figure of man, long and tall. He shook his head hoping that the man’s proportions were a side-effect, a hallucination from the pain, but as he strained to look again he could see that he had made no mistake. The figure raised a large staff by his side.

CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.

Edward’s extended visual of the room came to rest on the prominent figure as Witticker shakily raised his hand to point out the source of the booming sound. Jehovah began to move closer, his finer features obscured by shadow, but his stature unmistakable. His long coat whipped at his sides with each stride through the hall.
“It ends here,” rumbled Jehovah through the archaic terminal, “It is time.”
The clatter of footsteps rang through the air as the golden acolytes entered the decaying terminal like a flood. Edward looked up towards the stairs as more and more bodies rushed in through the door, filling the upper tier of the station. He pulled Witticker up from the slump he had fallen in to and began to approach Jehovah, coming to a stop next to the dusty information booth.
“We have to pass,” shouted Edward to the giant, “there’s more to this than you know.”
“Oh,” bellowed the deep voice, “I know all too well.”
Jehovah came to a stop in the middle of the room.
“That man is the threat. He should have already been dead. But it was you all along. I underestimated you before, but now I remember.”
Jehovah swept his hand across the scope of the room. As his arm passed through the open air Witticker’s hung head caught a glimpse of something through the hunter’s open coat. Thin brown cylinders strapped across the breadth of his chest. The sea of acolytes clattered down the stairs onto the terminal floor. They rushed at the two men from behind. Witticker tugged at Edward’s loose jacket.
“I never failed!” roared Jehovah, his voice climbing to the highest point of the room, "In what world have my will or my strength of mind failed? I have no fear! I am fear!"
Witticker pulled sharply on Edward’s coat, forcefully directing his attention downward.
“Move,” hissed Witticker, forcing the breath from his body, “Move!”

*~~*

The first moment was just the sound. It rolled through the room, rushing over and out of every living and dead thing like a gust of wind.

The next moment was saturated with light. It spread from the origin to fill the whole room in the fiery design. It cleansed the hall, bursting through every opening, wrapping everything that walked or chased or followed in brilliant light.

The fire wrecked through the building. Shattering the tiles and the steel window panes. Pouring out into the street. The building stood, but different than before.

The final moment was quiet. The world had been silenced. The moment was serene and the landscape peaceful.

*~~*

The terminal smoked in a scarred state. The pillars of the once great hall had been shocked by the explosion, the façade crumbling down the edges of each column. The crumbs of the building fell from every wall as Edward pushed his way from underneath the remains of the information desk, pulling Witticker from the small doorway he had been blown into. He carried the injured explorer over the rubble of tiles that had been ripped from the vaulted ceiling. He found a level spot next to the center of the cavernous hall where he gently laid him down. Edward bent over his friend and companion, holding his head upright.
“Just hold on,” cried Edward, shaking the man for any sign of vitality.

*~~*

Witticker coughed violently as his head was raised from its sunken position. He had begun to lose the sensations of pain. Everything began to go numb. His vision began to spin as he looked for Edward’s face.
“Don’t let this…don’t let this happen again,” coughed Witticker, “Give them a choice…this time. Any choice. Just don’t forget…don’t forget again.”
The spinning began to take over again and his head fell. He felt his body move and shake, but it was beyond his control. The shaking was not his own and he knew that. The pain subsided, leaving his muscles limp and raw. The whirling vision spun and spun until slowly fading. Fading away until everything was gone.















The boy waves goodbye…


















































…to the fallen man…


















































…who taught him about life.


















































Click.

Chapter 58

Arnold Cavenstein crept slowly across his kitchen floor to the door leading into the dining room. His hands stuck to the floor as he crawled, sticky with the residue of two days spent in heavy cooking. No sound had emanated from the room since the barrage of gunfire had sent Arnold into a series of mental fits moments before. His subsequent five minutes had been spent in abject terror, fully convinced that his own death was forthcoming. He had eventually calmed himself to such an extent that he was able to proceed with the investigation into the scene of the conflict.
As Arnold approached the swinging door to the next room he quietly pushed himself up from the floor and braced his arms between the floor and the oven, putting himself in direct line with the small crack between the door and the frame. As he leaned forward to peer through the tiny crevice his hand slipped from its position on the floor sending him tumbling through the doorway. The door crashed against the adjacent wall, a boastful herald of his arrival.
From his fall Arnold had come to a full stop, lying face down in the dining room, a picture of utter exhaustion and failure. As he lay prone on the rough carpet he could feel a set of eyes surveying the scope of his entrance.
“Don’t move,” said Ms. J.
A trigger clicked somewhere above where Arnold lay.
“This had nothing to do with you. For your part you were completely blameless. They all deserved what they got. I didn’t even have to touch the old man. Probably died of guilt anyway, the old bastard.”
Footsteps circled from Arnold’s right to his left side.
“It’s funny, you know? I shouldn’t have ever cared. I wouldn’t have either, but that damn Brisby. It was in his voice. You could always tell he was right.”
Arnold shook on the floor, scared of inevitability. The footsteps that had been circling him began to move away. He heard the front door creak open.
“You still have a chance you know. You just need to make the right choices.”
Arnold Cavenstein remained motionless, prostrate in an empty room in an empty building on the edge of an empty city.

Chapter 57

“Missing volume? He’s a man!”
After having been escorted to a quiet side exit of the library, Witticker and Edward found themselves again in the middle of an empty street on the island of Manhattan. Witticker, however, was no longer interested in any further traveling. Nor was he interested in his empty stomach which had been growling at him for the past several hours. In fact, he had even temporarily given up rationality in favor of pursuing the answers to his questions, of which he had collected several over the past few hours.
“Well,” began Edward, “it’s complic…”
“No,” howled Witticker, “it’s not. Not this time! A man is not a volume. He’s a man! And there’s another question! Where are all the books? We’ve been across half the country and through more than half of that library and I haven’t seen one! Not a single one! Not even a paperback! And why didn’t that old man answer any of my questions? And who was the guy in that picture? And where are we going? Answer me!”
Edward, having continued to walk since their exit from the library, had cleared roughly a block on Witticker, who stood firm in his obstinacy. Edward turned slowly to look back at his companion, still standing in the heavy shade of the library against the setting sun.
“Son of a bitch,” said Edward, walking back to Witticker at a marked speed, “Fine! You want to know? I’ll tell you. But don’t make it sound like I’ve been hiding it from you! I’m not a goddamn psychic! We’ve been in some pretty tight and, I’ll grant you, bizarre situations, but you’ve never asked me anything that I didn’t tell you. Why do you think I’d start now?”
Witticker didn’t answer, darting his eyes to the side to avoid Edward’s accusatory gaze.
“Just come with me and I’ll tell you everything, but please, come on! We have to keep moving! If this guy is where I think he might be I want to find him before he disappears again.”

*~~*

A synopsis of the discussion between Witticker and Edward on their trip through Manhattan

- A man is a man. A man is not a volume.
o However, a man can be a librarian and a librarian can be a ‘volume’.

- In the New York Public Library there are no books, just people.
o It was determined after the Great Decline that books were no longer suitable containers of the world’s knowledge due to their tendency to decay and the ease in which they were able to be stolen.
 Specific people were chosen to be the vessels of the knowledge until a more permanent solution could be found.
• These people were selected based on memory skills and capacity for extended thought.
o Upon being imparted to the human ‘volumes’ the books were destroyed to insure the security of information in the library and to enhance the value of their new human containers.

- Every ‘volume’ is part of a ‘collection’ referring to their specific content area.

- Each ‘volume’ is required to contain their own information while also attending lectures by other ‘volumes’.
o This is meant to expand each ‘volume’s individual understanding of their own content and how it pertains to the whole.

- Edward was a ‘volume’.
o His content area was ‘late 20th and early 21st century history’.
 He was expelled from the library for teaching the tenets of Perceptionism, a subject banned from the library due to the destructive nature of its past.

- The old man in the portrait was a very old and peculiar ‘volume’ named Ronald Yoder.
o He belonged to no ‘collection’ and his content area was classified under the title ‘grammar rules’.
o The actual title was ‘dreams and the action of dreaming’.
 He was forbidden to discuss or lecture on any of the information he possessed.
• In 2182 he went missing and, despite the best efforts of the library, has not been seen for past thirty years.
o The only information forwarded by Malcolm Dietrichs about Ronald Yoder was that at the time of his disappearance he had been researching the emergence of the Golden Acolytes with a near fanatical interest.

*~~*

“…and I think,” said Edward as he climbed over a concrete roadblock, “that I know where this guy is.”
Edward turned back and extended his hand to help Witticker over the concrete fence.
“And if he is there, well, I don’t know,” grunted Edward as Witticker scrambled over the wall, “It’s possible he might know who you are.”
“Great,” grunted Witticker, “it’s about time somebody told me.”
Edward chuckled as he scrambled up a pile of debris and quickly jumped down to the sidewalk below. Witticker cautiously followed, carefully climbing up the pile of fallen rocks that Edward had bounded over so deftly.
“Hey,” called Edward from the lower sidewalk, “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Where did you pull that question from in Dietrichs’ office?”
“What question?” asked Witticker as he hopped over the peak of the stone hill.
“You know, the whole ‘devolution of the human race’ thing? That was quite a shocker. Not a whole lot of people can get Dietrichs’ attention like that.”
Witticker hung from the edge of the stone pile, checking his destination below, before finally releasing, landing on the uneven sidewalk with a heavy grunt.
“Oh, that. Well, to tell you the truth, I was picking around in Brisby’s white box last night after you fell asleep. Turns out he kept a research journal on there. There wasn’t a whole lot of fact, just a bunch of theories. He had an interview with one guy who called the absence of dreaming a devolutionary phenomenon that started a long time ago. He was pretty paranoid about the whole thing, Brisby I mean. Pretty convinced that it wasn’t natural. Something that someone did to us. He just couldn’t prove it. One thing’s for sure though, he was telling the truth when he said he didn’t know anything about me. I searched the whole damn thing.”
“Sorry,” murmured Edward, walking beside his friend down the crumbling sidewalk.
“Don’t worry about it,” replied Witticker, “the truth’ll have to come out eventually.”

*~~*

The two men had been traveling through the deteriorating streets for nearly thirty minutes and were slowly advancing on the edge of the island city. Seagulls greeted them overhead and the wind from the water’s edge blew upon their faces as it ran through the narrow industrial valley.
“But where are we going?” asked Witticker, following Edward through a narrow path between two decaying automobiles, “and how do you know he’s going to be there at all? What would bring him here?”
“That,” answered Edward, pointing at a large rectangular building that had just appeared as they passed out of the maze of streets. The rectangle stood next to the water on one of its smaller side so that its length reached towards the sky. Flagpoles were planted in a curved line in front of the building, empty of the diverse flags they once flew. Across the length of the there were holes where windows once existed, small rectangular gaps divided into very complex and mathematically equal sections.
“This is a very ancient testament to an old and invested hobby of his.”
Witticker scanned the massive structure from top to bottom. His eyes were first drawn to the great height of the building, then to the thick cloud of birds darting in and out of the structure, and finally to an odd spectacle occurring in the parking lot in front of the building. In the paved area past the series of flagpoles a small figure could be seen jumping and waving its arms in frantic and irregular patterns towards the building. From a distance the figure appeared to be a small man with a thick beard clad in ragged clothing, a small satchel flying into the air at his side as he gestured erratically, shaking his hands furiously at the building. Witticker shook his head in disbelief as Edward began his walk towards the plaza.
“Really?” murmured Witticker as he followed Edward through the intersecting streets.

*~~*

As they approached the empty lot the old man, recognizing he was no longer alone, stopped his wild gesticulations and hunched over in the direction of his observers. He hid his face with one hand and pointed at them with the other.
“What is he doing?” whispered Witticker as they walked forward.
“I have no idea. Do the same.”
Edward bent over and covered his face with his own hand, pointing at the old man with the other. Witticker quickly followed suit. The three men sat in the position for several minutes as the old man rocked from side to side, letting out a series of low grunts. Finally he peered out through his fingers and let out a high pitched cry. He jumped up from his crouching position and ran towards Witticker and Edward.
“You!” shouted the man excitedly, “You!”
“Me,” answered Edward, returning the enthusiasm to the old man from his crouched state. The old man quickly turned and ran back to the parking lot, jumping and shaking his fists at the building. Edward slowly began to rise and gestured to Witticker to do the same.
“What should we do?” hissed Witticker.
“I don’t know,” murmured Edward, “You’re the one with all the questions. Go ask him.”
Witticker chuckled and looked to Edward only to find a face devoid of comical intent.
“Are you serious?”
Edward pointed towards the old man frolicking on the empty pavement.
“It’s him or no one.”
Witticker turned and stared at the man for several moments, observing his actions. He didn’t appear to be dangerous and he was the only source of potential information that they’d been able to track down thus far. Witticker struggled inside himself, never having imagined that the answers to all his questions would be coming from such an abnormal informant.
After several moments of consideration Witticker shrugged his shoulders and began walking towards what he perceived to be a very nonsensical situation. As he began his advance the old man froze in his movements, standing very rigid. Witticker stopped a few feet away from the ragged man and waved in greeting. The old man lifelessly mimicked Witticker’s gesture, waving his hand from side to side in a dull back and forth.
“Hello,” started Witticker, “do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Questions!” cried the old man as he jumped back towards the building, “questions don’t answer anything! Questions can’t fill the sky with birds and clouds and sun and there’s nothing there but answers!”
Witticker looked back to Edward who shrugged his shoulders. He turned back to the old man.
“Okay, let’s try this one. Are you Ronald Yoder?”
The old man raised his chin in the air and ran his fingers through his lengthy beard.
“Yoder? I know him! I remember him! I feel him, somewhere! Somewhere farther than the ocean of questions and answers and birds in the buildings.”
“Good,” answered Witticker, “do you think you or he could tell me about something?”
The old man nodded vigorously in the affirmative.
“Great! Do you know anything about someone named Witticker?”
“Oh!” cried the old man, “I know that! I remember that I know that! Just a little boy! They took him from everything! They took him to keep him!”
“Who took him?”
“The people in the biggest buildings,” mumbled the old man, suddenly looking much more anxious, “In the darkest rooms. In the longest hallways. They wanted to make sure they had one. In case. In case. In case they needed one!”
“Needed one what?”
“A dreamer! They needed one in case they ever needed to know more about it! About all the things it does and means and knows. You can’t just make it disappear! It doesn’t just disappear! And if it comes back and you don’t have one then you’ve lost control! All the control! They had to have one to keep control!”
“What do you know about dreams?”
“I know the world! I know the whole world about it! But no one else can know. They aren’t around anymore. They left. They’re gone.”
“Where did they go?”
“Away.”
“Why?”
The old man rushed towards Witticker and pulled him down close to the ground.
“Because they forgot,” whispered the old man with a shocking sincerity and tone, “they forgot them!”
As Witticker considered Roland Yoder’s words an amplified voice filled the cavern between the buildings.
“Edward St. Cavalier. Stop and stay where you are. You have committed a crime and are to be detained.”
Birds rushed from the building windows as Witticker turned to Edward who was already staring down the shoreline. A mass of people had appeared a block down on the coast of the archaic city structure. They were dressed in black and stood in close and rigid lines, uniform in their appearance. The black column stretched across the coast in an unending number. Edward turned back towards Witticker whose face had fallen loose with shock.
“It’s time to go.”

Chapter 56

Things had escalated.
Arnold B. Cavenstein was curled into a ball on the linoleum floor of his kitchen. He had assumed the form upon hearing the unmistakable sound of a gunshot from the next room where he had been hosting a dinner party for the past several days. Since the gunshot there had been no sound from the room and no movement by any of the room’s dining members.
As he sat motionless on the floor Arnold’s heart beat ferociously in his chest. His mind was screaming at him to get up and go, escape from the chaotic situation. His body slowly began to catch up to the urgency of his thoughts and he moved to uncoil. Suddenly, a high-pitched voice screamed from the dining room. Arnold froze.
“You really don’t know why I’m here do you?”
There was a moment of silence and then the voice continued.
“He was too thorough! Too meticulous! He knew I didn’t understand, so he left it for me. All spelled out! And when he left and all I wanted to do was die, it was the only thing there for me!”
BANG.
“AAH!” cried a second deeper voice.
“Don’t move again Simon or I’ll put it somewhere worse!”
Footsteps could be heard moving slowly around the adjacent room. With each step Arnold could feel his breath quicken until it seemed he would have no room left in his lungs.
“You’re all responsible! It took me a long time to find out each story, but it’s all bound up in this room! You’re takers! You took from him, and from me, and sooner or later you’ll take everything and there’ll be nothing left! Well to hell with all of that! I’m going to stop this right now!”
The footsteps stopped.
“Pick up the phone, Roland! Call him off!”
Through the wall a muffled murmur of response could be heard.
“Bullshit! You can do anything! Get on that phone and call him off!” screamed the high-pitched voice.
An even shorter mumble replied.
The room fell into silence for several moments. Arnold had pressed himself against the stove in his frightened stupor and was clinging to the oven door handle. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto the floor only inches away.
“This can’t keep happening!” shrieked the voice, quivering with primal desperation.
BANG. BANG. BANG.

Chapter 55

“What!” exploded Edward?
He had until moments ago, when his companion abruptly lobbed a very serious question to the senior librarian of the New York Public Library, expected much less from his traveling contemporary. In the particular context, Edward’s inquisitive utterance functioned more as a mental release than any formal attempt at a method of questioning. The question that Witticker had posed to the old director had not taken Edward off-guard due to its breadth or relevance, but in greater part to its specificity.
In any case, Edward could sense that the question had set something off in the librarian and he knew that any further interjection might cost both he and Witticker the opportunity of a response.

*~~*

“Your question has a complicated answer,” muttered Dietrichs, ignoring Edward’s outburst as he stared deeply into his ashtray. “In fact, I’m not quite sure you deserve the answer at all. Under what circumstances did you come by the information you have now?”
“I knew a man who had an acute interest in the subject,” answered Witticker, ever-ambiguous.
“A name,” growled Dietrichs.
“Brisby Jacobs.”
“Son of a bitch,” cursed Dietrichs, suddenly standing and walking around his desk. He passed both of the sitting men and headed out the door.
“Should we…?” whispered Witticker to Edward, gesturing towards the door left open by the aging director.
“We should,” shot back Edward, springing up from his chair.
Both men ran after the surprisingly swift director who had already passed through the lobby into the adjacent hallway. As they ran after the old man Witticker glanced into the several rooms lining the corridor. Each one contained a large table with several chairs and two large windows with long red drapes drawn closed. Most of the rooms were empty leaving only a scant few occupied and even then by only small huddles of people whispering across wooden tables.
As they passed room after room Witticker began to notice an odd sensation rising in his subconscious, a feeling that seemed to be catching up with him. He knew it was a combination of triggers, a series of experiences boiling together, but it was something in the library that had set off this particular sensation.
He shrugged it off as they caught up with the old man. As Dietrichs hurried down the hallway he pulled a large cigar from his coat pocket and began to light it with a squeaky lighter produced from his pants pocket.
“Brisby Jacobs,” murmured Dietrichs, “came here thirty-one years ago to consult our records. He was granted admission under very special circumstances and was supposed to be researching something about the topography and weather conditions of the Midwest. However, it was reported that he was asking questions out of the scope of his primary investigation. Questions very similar to the one you asked me today.
Dietrichs flicked his cigar end sending a shower of ash and spark towards the floor in line with Witticker’s next step. He quickly navigated around the fiery residue as Dietrichs continued his lecture.
“He was a pain in my ass. Tall and slick and annoyingly persistent. Accessed archives for about three months, night and day, but didn’t seem to be getting the answers he was looking for. One day he stormed into my office yelling about this and that, accusing me of hiding the truth from him. He left the next day. I didn’t think much of it at the time.”
The three men rounded the corner at the turn in the building and began descending the staircase into the main lobby. Witticker looked across the room at the tables set up in front of the main entrance. Scads of people milled around the foyer, groups sharing coffee, others smoking, some sleepily hunched over the edge of tables. Once again he felt the question flame up inside his subconscious. He scanned the scene for an element he couldn’t quite put his finger on, a part that was missing.
“For a few years after he left I thought about that day he came in my office. It hadn’t really bothered me that he was so pissed off, that happens here a lot and he was coloring well outside the lines of his assignment. But I won’t say that I wasn’t surprised at his predicament, considering the breadth of our collection and the strength of his convictions. I realized years later that I may have accidentally done him a bit of a disservice. I wasn’t intentionally hiding anything from him, but at the time of his arrival a bit of our archive had gone missing and I realize now that it may have been right in line with what he was looking for.”
Dietrichs pushed through a door off the lobby into what appeared to be another endless hallway lined with doorframes and portraits, each room looking the same as the last, each framed personage as stiff as the next.
“Unfortunately that particular volume is still missing, but I can at least point you in the right direction.”
Dietrichs began to slow his hurried pace and came to a full stop in the middle of the hallway. The section of the corridor in which they stood was not particularly exciting or even much different than any section of any other hallway that Witticker had seen yet. They stood between two portraits that each hung between two doorways into two dark and empty rooms.
Witticker looked around himself curiously, hoping to notice something overly peculiar or significant, but was only confronted with the same feeling of curious tension that had been eating at him since the departure from the librarian’s office. He turned to Edward to confirm his confounded state only to find his traveling mate staring quizzically at one of the portraits hanging in the unremarkable corridor.

*~~*

Edward wasn’t quite sure how he knew, but he did all the same.
It wasn’t the beard, which was less ragged and bushy. It wasn’t the lanky stature or any curve of the face as the man was much healthier then. It wasn’t even the teeth, which appeared to be much whiter at the time.
It was the eyes. Open wide with that intense passion. Reflecting a certain kind of brilliance. Knowledge of something beyond comprehension.
It was the man outside his building
It was the man in the train yard.
It was Bernie.

*~~*

“This is him,” rumbled Dietrichs as he pointed to the man in the portrait, “this is the missing volume.”

Chapter 54

***Editorial Note: The following two sections are meant to be placed into two columns running beside one another down the page. However, due to the limitations of this specific medium, the columns have been removed. The left column is presented first with the right column following (as labeled). If these are the only problems of the modern age we are a fortunate society indeed.***

(On the left side of the page)

Witticker sat in a creaky wooden chair in the exceedingly dim waiting of Malcolm Dietrichs. He had been instructed by Edward to wait there during his meeting, which Witticker felt was implied as it was a waiting room, but he felt little compulsion to argue with his friend over semantics.
Witticker was joined in the waiting room by an old man of significantly smaller stature than himself and a female receptionist who appeared to be in her early twenties.
The receptionist was busying herself with what appeared to be -like procedures. She would first shuffle several papers from one side of the desk to the other. She would then pull random papers from the new stack and paper-clip them together. Finally, she would take two much smaller pieces of official-looking paper and staple them to the freshly paper-clipped pages.
-SNAP-
Then the process would begin again.
Upon turning his attention from the procedure-driven receptionist Witticker noticed that the small old man sitting across the room was staring in his direction. At first, Witticker thought that he must have caught the man stealing a momentary glance, but as the minutes rolled by he realized that the old man had an invested interest in his gaze.
“May I help you?” asked Witticker, unsure of the most polite way to address his overly attentive observer.
-SNAP-
“Possibly,” said the small old man as he stood rather abruptly and began to walk towards where Witticker was sitting. The little man reached a creaky wooden chair beside Witticker and slowly sat down, giving every bone in his body a moment to adjust before taking on the full weight of his tender frame.
“What do you do here?” asked the old man, settling himself in his new seat.
Witticker, not quite ready to give himself up to a complete stranger, played coy.
“Just waiting, for today.”
Witticker didn’t really think his response would sell, but was not able to produce anything of substance on the spot.
“You don’t happy to know anything about late 20th century history do you?”
“Nope,” answered Witticker honestly.
“Damn,” rattled the old man, banging his fist on his knee, “I was supposed to meet someone here who was meant to know quite a bit about it.”
Witticker shrugged and turned his eyes forward.
“Well, if you’re not him, you’re not him.”
“I’m not him,” affirmed Witticker.
-SNAP-
Witticker began staring at other parts of the room trying to imply in a very subtle way that their conversation had come to an end.
“So,” began the old man, missing any sign of an innuendo, “if you don’t know about 20th century history what do you know?”
Witticker was stumped.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Well,” answered the old man, rolling his eyes, “I’m merely inquiring about your area of expertise. What do you know?”
“I know quite a bit, but I hardly think that that I qualify as an expert in any field. What about you?”
The old man looked unsatisfied at Witticker’s answer.
“My area of study is the history of the early 21st century. Which department are you involved with here?”
“I’m not part of any department.”
-SNAP-
The old man shot him a look of renewed interest.
“So what are you doing here then? Are you a new hire?”
Witticker found himself very wound up in the man’s line of questions.
“No, I’m just here with a friend.”
At that moment the door next to the receptionist opened and Edward walked out, waving him towards the door.
“There he is now,” answered Witticker, relieved to escape, “It’s been great talking to you. Have a great day.”
Witticker quickly hopped up from his seat and into the office, leaving the small old man alone with the noisy receptionist.

---------------------------------------

(On the right side of the page)

Edward sat on the receiving side of the desk of Malcolm Dietrichs. He had arrived only moments ago, instructing Witticker to wait outside. A mist lingered in the office, emphasized by the setting sun banking in from two large bay windows behind the desk. The light shrouding Dietrichs only added to his potentate-like status and the musty air invoked a sense of awe, as if Edward were sitting in the burial chamber of a God. The light was an intentional effect designed by the original architects and Dietrichs had chosen the room for that very reason. The stuffy air, however, was merely a byproduct of Dietrichs addiction to very low-end cigars.
The aged director sat behind the desk, leaning forward with both elbows propping up his wrinkled head. A cigar smoldered, half burnt, in an ashtray on top of a large stack of papers to his left.
“What are you doing here?”
-snap-
“Oh, you know,” replied Edward slyly, “It’s just this place. I couldn’t stay away.”
“I’m not in the mood,” rumbled Dietrichs. He was never in the mood.
“Well, it’s sort of complicated,” started Edward, “you see, I found a guy who has some questions that I couldn’t answer. I thought, ‘who better?’.”
Dietrichs shifted himself from his leaning position to grab the poorly wrapped cigar.
“So, it wouldn’t have anything to do with the acolytes pouring into Manhattan then?”
-snap-
“That’s interesting;” replied Edward, feigning ignorance “acolytes are on Manhattan?”
“Yes,” growled Dietrichs, “and they’ve been asking questions, very specific questions. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
“News to me,” lied Edward. The encounter in the distrip several days previous was nothing short of a blaring announcement that the acolytes were aware of his presence and would be after him.
The two men sat staring at one another for several minutes. The light behind Dietrichs began to grow slightly brighter causing Edward to squint at the old librarian. Dietrichs rolled the cheap cigar between his thumb and forefinger.
“So,” grumbled Dietrichs, “by now you’re aware that your arrival here isn’t going to be received very well. You weren’t summoned. There isn’t a replacement yet and you aren’t at an age where that is a cause for concern. I can’t let you stay.”
“That’s the thing, I don’t want to stay,” answered Edward, “I just need access to the archives for a few hours and I’ll go.”
“No,” answered Dietrichs automatically.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean ‘No’.”
-snap-
“That privilege was revoked when you were dismissed.”
Edward leaned back in his chair for a moment and closed his eyes. He took a very audible, deep breath; in through his mouth, out through his nose.
“This is important. If it’s worth anything, it has very little to do with me.”
“I don’t care, Edward. Whether or not it concerns you is of little relevance as it is still you that is asking.”
“Then why did open the door in the first place?”
“You’d have rather stayed out with the savages? You may not value what’s in your head, but we do.”
“Alright then, if you won’t help me, at least meet with the guy. Listen to him. If you don’t hear anything of value then we’ll leave.”
-snap-
“What in the hell is that noise?”
“Never mind that,” bellowed Dietrichs, waving off the remark with his wrinkled hand. He sat for a moment staring at the end of his smoking cigar.
“Your friend has five minutes.”
Edward immediately jumped up and bounded to the door. He opened it and looked out to see Witticker talking with a small old man. He waved him in hurriedly and watched as Witticker made a quick goodbye.
He turned back inside the office, grabbed another wooden chair sitting by the door, and put it next to his own. He quickly returned to his own seat and motioned for Witticker to sit next to him.

---------------------------------------

(The two columns combine)

As Witticker approached the seat he could feel two sets of eyes following him across the room. He was pleased to be freed from the confines of the waiting room and his most recent acquaintance, but was finding the new setting to be unnerving in an entirely different way.
“Edward said you are here to find answers. What do you want to know?”
Witticker was initially taken aback by the very direct line of questioning, but realized that this was presumably why he had left the farmhouse in the first place. He put his reservations aside and opened his mouth to speak.
“I need to know who I am and what happened to me. Why I wasn’t ever told what was happening to the world around me. Why I feel like I can’t be a part of something that everyone else fits into so naturally.”
Dietrichs stared suspiciously at Witticker from across his desk.
“Is that all?”
Witticker shot Edward a questioning look from the corner of his eye, unsure of what more he was intended to want to know. Edward looked back at Witticker, extending an open hand towards Dietrichs and raising his eyebrows unnaturally high as if to say, “Go ahead, tell him everything.”
“What?” cried Witticker, “What else am I meant to be wondering about? Isn’t that enough?”
“This isn’t convincing Edward,” grumbled the senior librarian.
Witticker was utterly confused as to what he was supposed to be doing or saying in the office that he had not already. He hadn’t realized that his questions were being gauged and he feared that without the proper wording his trip might have been in vain. He scoured the farthest and deepest ends of his consciousness for something more when suddenly a thought sprang into his mind.

*~~*

It was a long shot, but what is a well-lived life but a series of long shots in desperate hope of an honest return?

*~~*

“I also want to know,” asked Witticker, his voice confident and direct, “what information you have about the early 21st century in regards to the devolution of the human race.”
Edward turned to Witticker in surprise at his companion’s question. Edward also noticed that Malcolm Dietrichs had sat up straighter in his chair and put his dwindling cigar back in its ashtray. Upon closer inspection he could tell that the head librarian’s eyes had widened just slightly and his breathing had become slightly irregular. While this change was not readily apparent or a cause to take special notice in most other people, Edward was aware, as were most of the residents who ever came into contact with the director, that Malcolm Dietrichs was rarely ever surprised. Consequently, a slight change in his normally collected outer shell would mean that something had shaken the old man up quite a bit.
“Maybe you were right after all, Edward,” said Dietrichs through a forced whisper, “there seems to be more to this man than I had thought possible.”

Chapter 53

Leon: Listen to this.

Weeble: Listening.

Leon: The acolytes are all converging on Manhattan which means, I think, that they know where the Edward guy is. Also, turns out those riders for the train that found the break in the line were found. Only one was alive and she was only hanging on by a thread. She was so hysterical they couldn’t get much out of her.

Weeble: Any word on who did it?

Leon: No ID, but I think it sounds like Jehovah. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was somewhere in Manhattan too. Something’s about to happen there, you know?

Weeble: Definitely. I’m seeing all kinds of stuff...

Leon: Wait! Shut up! Don’t give away your location!

Weeble: What do I care?

Leon: I’m not the only one always listening you know! There’re tons of people crazier than me out there.

Weeble: No, that’s where you’re wrong. I think you really are the only one always listening.

Leon: You stubborn son of a bitch. Nevermind. Do what you want.

Weeble: Well not now! Now you’ve got me all paranoid!

Dead Air

Leon: Well, I’m going to keep listening. And seriously, take care of yourself.

Weeble: Will do.

Chapter 52

Witticker’s mind swam with confusion as he stood shakily in the New York Public Library. He found himself at the back of a large hall filled with long wooden tables, each lit dimly with small candles invoking a sense of reverent calm. His entire focus was drawn to the series of flickering lights branching out from table to table. He wasn’t quite sure how the small candles were able to conjure their mystical ambience, but nevertheless; it was so.
He began to reason that this train of thought, being directed solely on candle light instead of his location or his way of being there, could be considered, at the least, tertiary. His abrupt entry into the library from the advancing hoard of tribalistic city-dwellers had sent his normally observant and calculating mind into a dizzying storm. From the moment the door clicked shut from behind Witticker could only remember brief snapshots from the arrival at the library.

*~~*

…A grand marble atrium with expansive staircases framing each wall…

…Long wooden hallways with doors on each side peeking into large rooms with red curtains…

…Walls lined with portraits posed in rigid sitting positions…

…A large wooden door, only slightly cracked, being pulled open…

*~~*

And as if he had awoken from an afternoon nap that had gone on longer than planned Witticker suddenly found himself very aware in the table-filled hall. As his brain began to ask the questions appropriate to the situation he noticed Edward next to him in the room, leaning on the wall, staring down the aisles of chairs. Witticker had learned through experience that the subject of Edward’s focus was generally one of collective importance. He casually turned and looked in the same direction.
The tables were populated in general intervals, implying the feeling of a full room without each table being overly crowded. Those present participated in the traditional academic traditions. They poured over mounds of paper, drank steaming coffee from ceramic cups, talked in muffled tones while exaggerating emphatically with their arms, or, which seemed to be the most prevalent, all three at once. The specific locale of the room which Edward had been directing his gaze seemed to not only be of interest to him, but to most of the people in the immediate area.
The table in question was situated on the left side of the hall, from their vantage point, and was occupied on both sides by men and women dressed in a casually elegant way, the look of a chic think tank. A few of the men smoked on fat cigars while almost all the ladies held their sticks of tobacco on the end of thin plastic cylinders. Smoke rose from the area as if someone had poked holes in the table and it had begun to leak all the hazy after-product it had collected through the years.
The smokers on the sides of the table were directing their attention to the head smoker, a man at the head of the table who even Witticker found to be a visually engaging subject. He was very skinny with an average build, but, in comparison with his colleagues, appeared to be the largest at the table. His hair was blond and tossed about on his head as if it had been pulled in agony over a very serious question that presented no clear answer. He wore thin wire-rimmed glasses which sat nimbly at the end of his nose, implying that he was giving great thought and attention to whomever he was speaking with. His ensemble matched his physical attributes with bright khakis at the bottom, a black argyle sweater vest over a white button-up shirt in the middle, and done up in full with a loosely-fitted black tie on top. He was the picture of the idealized intellectual and, from his overly exaggerated mannerisms and condescending tone of voice, it appeared that he knew it.
The head smoker, as if suddenly aware that he was being watched from afar, glanced to the side of room where Edward and Witticker had been leaning for the past several minutes.
“Okay,” mumbled Edward, “this might get a little strange.”
Having already experienced several peculiar events in the past several days which Edward had remarked upon as being merely standard, Witticker became immediately nervous at the prospect of being greeted by any person worthy of being described as ‘strange’.
The skinny man rose from his sitting position and began to push through the aisles of chairs in Edward and Witticker’s direction. He moved with a light swagger, but his stature was slightly bent and, thus, the swagger communicated less of a confident stride and more of an old man’s gait. To Witticker’s surprise Edward left his resting position and began to walk towards the advancing man. Witticker quickly followed, dodging through the walkway littered with chairs.
He noticed as the two men drew nearer that the people at the tables had stopped their own gesturing and coffee drinking to turn and watch the imminent exchange. Finally, only a table’s length from the other, the two men stopped, glaring distastefully at one another.

*~~*

If the setting had been different the latent observer would have been easily convinced that a showdown between rival cowboys was about to occur and that a gunfight, very likely to the death, was imminent. However, in the locale of the library reading room, this was not as much implied.

*~~*

“What brings you back, Edward?” crowed the skinny man, his cold and sharp tone betraying his words, which might be considered welcoming if offered in a way that was even remotely warm or friendly.
“Oh, just business,” replied Edward, disregarding the overtly hostile nature of the skinny man, “I’m fine, by the way. How are you?”
“Don’t pretend to teach me any lessons in pleasantries,” snapped the man, “you people shouldn’t even be allowed to set foot in this place.”
Edward casually took a cigarette and lighter from his pants pocket and with a quick snap of his wrist brought flame to the small silver fire box. He placed the cigarette in his mouth and carefully lit it.
“But I am allowed,” mumbled Edward out of the corner of his mouth, “and that’s that, so how about you go back to your table and discuss something important or revolutionary. I’m sure you have a lot of that to do today.”
Edward took a step forward to pass the smoker. The skinny man quickly stopped him with a hand to his chest, his fingertips squashing the crease on Edward’s lapel.
“You don’t get to brush me off anymore,” returned the skinny man, “We’re not equals like before. I’m much more important now.”
Edward stared at the hand on his chest. Witticker, who had witnessed several supernatural feats of strength from Edward in the course of their time together, feared for the skinny man’s health.
“Okay, Horace” said Edward, taking a step back to where he had been, “what do you want? I’m rather busy, you see, so this’ll have to be quick.”
“You act so smug,” replied Horace, “but you’re nothing anymore.”
Edward chuckled at his adversary.
“That’s just another way of saying I’m everything. Just depends on how you look at it. Or had you forgotten all that? Or did you never get it in the first place?”
Edward walked closer to Horace, placing his cigarette in his right hand, and cupped his hands to his mouth, feigning a whisper.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot the policy of this place. Leaving out bits and pieces here and there. I’m sure you’ll forgive me. I’ve been away for a while. You know, actually trying to help the world instead of sitting at tables chatting about the sorry state of things.”
At this Edward took a long drag and blew a cloud of smoke in the face of his verbal opponent. He then turned and began to walk back towards where Witticker stood. As he watched Edward walk away the man named Horace looked to be frozen in volcanic rage, bubbling with violent tension. As if spurned on by a screaming mob Horace suddenly leapt towards Edward, releasing a guttural cry from the depths of his soul. Instinctively, Witticker grabbed Edward and pulled him out the immediate conflict as the crowd around them suddenly sprang into action, rushing to hold Horace back. The pasty man had quickly changed into a red-faced ball of anger, screaming and shouting as the crowd pulled him back from his violent desire.
“You’re nothing! A wasted shell! Nothing!”
The picture of a fistfight was far from anything that the halls of this reading room had ever seen and all of the spectators were captivated, excited by the possibility of witnessing any physical altercation. All, except one.
“Stop this at once!” bellowed a commanding voice from the opposite end of the hall.

*~~*

Malcolm Dietrichs was considered by most of the people that knew him well to be one of the smartest, if not thee smartest person in the living world. Those same people were also aware that he suffered no bullshit. He had held the position of senior librarian in the New York Public Library since a time well before the birth of most of its current residents due in no small part to his insistence on getting directly to the point.
His age had been a general fascination among the library populace for several years, most people placing him, on average, between ninety and one-hundred and five years old. However, the number was of little consequence as Dietrichs benefited from his extensive longevity, which commanded him respect in every sphere of his life.
In fact, the only catch of his long-lived life was the style and state of his appearance. Most residents could not remember a time that the aged book keeper had not appeared emaciated. Tottering through the halls on legs no thicker than a fresh sapling, his trunk suckled in upon itself from lack of any indulgence, his arms stretching nimbly from his body like bent broomstick handles. His face was long and sagging, the skin draping from his cheekbones as if hung like loose fabric. In contrast, however, his beard and hair, the only physical conditions still under his direct control, were always very well kept; having been combed and clipped to the extent that even the most discerning eye could not have found a white hair out of place.
Despite this aged physique, Dietrichs was still very much a part of the day-to-day operations in the library. He was regularly consulted in any forum for debate and his word, while not always substantial, was final. He was a well-respected director with an authoritative personality and, thusly, his decisions, judgments, and conclusions had never been questioned.

Except once…

*~~*

The crowd in the hall slowly turned their heads to the senior librarian who had just put an effective hold on all movement.
“Edward, my office,” rumbled Dietrichs, “five minutes.”
The dusty old man turned and left the hall. Edward grabbed Witticker and began shuffling through the tables as the remaining crowd shuffled back to their tables. The two darted down the thin walkway toward the door the senior librarian had just exited.
“Wait, what’s going on?” cried Witticker, running after Edward, “you’re not going to leave after what just happened back there?”
“Did you hear him?” shot back Edward, “Five minutes! Let’s go!”
Witticker jogged after Edward out of the reading hall and into yet another dark hallway into what seemed to be a series of dark hallways towards another in a series of undisclosed destinations.

Chapter 51

Found in 2212 scribbled on a wall opposite the entrance to the Macy’s Relief Center on the island of Manhattan

Chapter 50

The afternoon sun poured from the sky onto the Manhattan Island as Witticker and Edward cautiously made their way through the ancient city streets. Witticker, having only experienced a fragment of the world in his travels, was pleasantly surprised with the recent lay of the land. The streets here, in comparison to those of the former cities he had seen, were still in working condition and relatively clear of debris and fauna. Very few buildings had given way to the passing of time, but, while still standing, showed clear signs of vacancy. Every window had shed its glass to provide more natural ventilation for the vegetation pushing out towards the sun. Birds flew overheard, darting from building to building, and twittering back and forth in celebration of their ready-made nests in the expansive metal trees.
Witticker and Edward’s travel was made much easier by the smooth walkways and as there was no foot traffic, nor people to make it, they were able to push through the city at a markedly speedy pace. As they walked Witticker played the part of tourist, stopping at every intersection, rapt in wonder at the seemingly endless rows of mammoth buildings and fantastic sights. Abandoned cars lined the roads, rusted through to the frames. Some were left in the midst of traffic, while others had been left parked, waiting for the world of people to return. Every corner produced a new store front with magnificent signs advertising a product forgotten by the modern world. Every street entrance appeared to have been forced in and each store taken for most of its contents, leaving little incentive to explore further than the outer edge for any food or equipment.
As the two travelers drudged through the city Witticker became acutely aware that he would be in a particularly regrettable state if he were ever to find himself alone or lost amidst these crowds of buildings. He turned to ask Edward about the possibility of this very predicament when he noticed that his companion had left his side and climbed atop a rusting heap next to a large metal pole at an intersecting street corner.
“Hey,” yelled Witticker, his voice echoing generously through every hollow space, “what are you doing?”
Edward waved him off and reached up to a thin piece of black metal jutting out from the edge of the large metal pole. He rubbed at the thin scrap with his hand revealing the large letters ‘PAR’ beneath the black film that had covered it. After studying the letters he jumped down from the car and slowly sauntered back towards Witticker.
“Keep your voice down,” hissed Edward, “I was just checking to see that we’re going the right way. Can’t believe those signs have held up as long as they have. Most everything else was taken out of here a long time ago. I guess it just goes to show that a system that can contribute a helpful service still commands a little respect.”
Witticker, though utterly confused by the meaning of the speech, nodded his head in agreement.
“We appear to be on the corner of Park and 50th,” said Edward pointing down each street as he named them.
“Great,” answered Witticker blandly, “What does that mean?”
Edward shot Witticker a sly smile through a furrowed brow.
“Sorry, I rarely travel with anyone. I’ll try to keep it simpler. In other words, we’re on the right road.”
He pointed down one of the large roads.
“Right road to where?”
“Ah,” replied Edward thoughtfully, “I keep forgetting you don’t know. I didn’t tell you before because it’s not exactly…well, if we’d been stopped…or you let it slip…it was just better that you didn’t know so nobody else could know.”
“Sure,” sighed Witticker, resigned to his fate of ignorance.
“We’re going to the only institution, I mean, foundation that survived the Great Decline. In fact, one of the only organized centers of culture still in existence in the Western Hemisphere. The New York Public Library.”
“Oh,” responded Witticker, injecting a hint of interest in his voice as he was sure that it was what Edward had wanted to hear.

*~~*

As the companions continued their trek through the city there was very little difference from sight to sight. Street corners and building fronts began to blend together into a collage of masonry and fauna. Suddenly, as they rounded yet another indistinguishable corner, a building came into view looking much more distinctive than the ones surrounding it.
It began with an open plaza from the street bridging into the majestic stairs. Two granite creatures, very proud and ancient beings, were set upon large stone pedestals flanking the stairway to the building. The stairs led up to three large archways housing three very intact glass windows. Pillars, made smooth by the wind and waters of time, were distributed evenly between each archway. Light glowed attractively from inside the building, luring the eye like a siren call.
“This is it,” said Edward as they approached the foot of the stairs to the massive structure.
“Yeah, I guessed as much.”
“Listen, if you don’t mind, at the door, let me do the talking. This might not be as easy as…”
BOM!
Edward’s voice was drowned out by a thunderous metallic sound coming from end of the street at their rear, perpendicular to the stair entrance. Both men looked towards the sound to see a crowd of strangely dressed individuals standing less than a block away. Each was arrayed in an assortment of decaying rags that hung from their bodies like extra appendages. They stood in hunched stances and held vast assortments of items in their hands ranging from large sticks to metal poles, all of which jutted out in sharp, menacing ends. One of the larger members of the crowd stepped forward holding a large cylinder. He raised a small hammer and slammed it against the cylinder.
BOM!
The sound crashed through the streets in every direction. Witticker jumped back at the sound as it ran through the space around them.
“We need to be very careful,” murmured Edward.
Witticker didn’t answer; his full attention spent on the crowd that had begun to advance from their position.
“Don’t move,” whispered Edward.
The people shifted together as if bound by some invisible chain, walking in similar step and stature. As they drew closer Witticker could see that their physical appearance resembled that of primal beings. Hair long and matted. Skin dark with dirt. Some wore bits of jewelry and others had items, such as cans or bags, hanging from their backs, tied with rope. The drum beater raised his hand and the crowd stopped. He stared at the two strangers, looking at each of them from top to bottom as if trying to figure out what kind of animal he had discovered.
Edward stood completely still, his forehead glistening with fresh droplets of sweat. Witticker fidgeted with stress, visibly shaking with tension. The anxiety ran its way up through his body and prompted his mouth to open and speak, but he was cut off by a guttural shout from the drum beater. The crowd joined their leader and let out a cacophonous yell that rang out in the open plaza. The drum beater began to beat his cylinder wildly, his arm flailing with reckless abandon.
BOM! BOM! BOM!
The native crowd ran at the two men. Upon their abrupt advance Edward grabbed Witticker and leapt up towards the building. Both men bounded up the stairs, past the granite guardians, and were met finally with a wall of doors. The sounds of their pursuers could be heard behind them as they clinked and clattered up the stairs, their metal accoutrements rattling against the stone. Witticker tried the doors and finding them locked pounded the wooden panels desperately. Edward turned back towards the clattering advance behind him. He drew his sword and held it steadily at his side.
Bellows and screeches came up to the foot of the building and suddenly went quiet. Witticker, amazed at the sudden silence, turned to the crowd to see them all frozen, staring at one of their members fallen on the stair, an arrow sticking from his side. The whole group stood motionless, looks of horror painted across the mass of natives. As if pricked with pins the people quickly sprang to life, scanning the building tops around them. The drum beater let out a deep bellow and pointed up to one of the taller buildings looming across the street. Several dark figures stood jumping and screaming from the rooftop, holding their bows high in the sky.
Witticker stood as frozen as his pursuers had just been when he was suddenly pulled backwards into the building. The door which had been locked stood open and Edward was pulling him inside. The two men fled inside the building and the door snapped shut behind them leaving the tribal hunters to their next pursuit.

Chapter 49

He’d been finished for several hours, but Arnold Cavenstein could not shake the feeling that he was inevitably bound for misfortune. Not until these people, these doomsayers, left his apartment would he see any chance of improvement on the situation. He sat crookedly, slumped upon a dirty stove in his kitchen staring out the window, pondering his state of affairs. The view looked out across a city landscape which had just emerged from its evening slumber. The sun peeked over the horizon casting shadows over toppled buildings, bathing the land in light. Arnold sipped gingerly at a cup of coffee that he had only moments ago reheated from a surplus left from his guests’ dinner.
As he sipped and swirled the coffee in his mouth his thoughts cycled dramatically from the events of the past two days to the foreseeable intentions of the dining party. While they had said in their original letter that they wished to ‘leave him to himself’ once they had concluded their affairs his paranoia had begun to get the better of him. He suspected now that it would not be as easy as it had originally been intended.
The cup of coffee shook in his hand as he brought it to his lips. His other hand rose to steady it and, with much concentration, willed the quivering limb into submission.
A light bell sounded from the next room prompting a hasty leap from the stove. Mr. Cavenstein flew into the room with a flurry of energy, but his face betrayed him, portraying the desperation of a man to the gallows, wishing for a pardon in his final hour. The four table members sat tall in their chairs, feigning alertness, but obviously tussled from their long engagement. Roland, as had become the routine, spoke first.
“You can clear the table now, Arnold. Thank you. We shouldn’t be much longer.”
Arnold nodded and quickly set to work around the table.
“Shouldn’t be,” mumbled Simon leaning back in his chair. He let out an elongated sigh as he ran both of his hands through his thick black hair. His hair, which had been so stiff and orderly at his arrival, had begun to stick out in awkward angles. This was due to his proclivity of running his fingers through it in any moments of mild stress, of which there had been many through the stretch of the past two days.
“Aren’t any of you even the least bit curious as to what is taking so long? We’ve been in this bloody room for god knows how long with nearly no word from anyone! I’m ready to go and take care of this myself!”
At this both Roland and Ms. J shot Simon a cold glare.
“What?” growled the giant, “where’s the harm in that? Sweet Christ! All any of you want to do is talk! Talk, talk, talk! Well, I’ve had it.”
Simon stood up from the table and began to walk towards the door.
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Roland quietly.
“Do what?” said Simon spinning in his tracks. He approached the table as if he were advancing on his prey, coiling up for a full spring. Mr. Cavenstein noticed the advance and backed against the wall, moving out of the line between the two men.
“You know we’re waiting for a ghost, right? He’s a coward! He crawls in the shadows, never looks anyone in the eye. Probably’s run off and left us to…”
“Now that’s enough,” bellowed Victor from his normally quiet side of the table. “You’d be smart to choose your words more carefully. Jehovah may be a bit unorthodox for your tastes, but he is a faultless technician, which is more than I can say for some at this table. He is entirely thorough, never doing more or less than has been requested.”

*~~*

Twenty-four years earlier…

Three men dressed in dark suits sit inside the back of a van headed towards an undisclosed situation. The men sit facing each other in a triangular formation and hunched forward to keep their voices low. The largest of the three men commands the attention of the other two, being both greater in size and volume.
“Bloody bumpy roads,” growls the large man in a thick accent, “thought this place was being looked after.”
The other two men murmur in agreement. One of the smaller men reaches in his coat pocket and pulls out a package of cigarettes. He offers one to each man, who both silently decline. He retrieves a small lighter from his coat pocket and snaps it to life.
“Any idea of what we’re meant to be expectin’ out here?” mumbles the small man through the corner of his mouth, the other busy with a freshly lit cigarette.
“Just some nobody in the sticks who’s forgotten he’s not in charge. A real asshole, if you ask me. Knows that if he doesn’t do as he’s told that someone’s going to come and rap his knuckles, but goes ahead and does it anyway. People like that just get at me in the worst way. Just like that guy we pulled in last week. The one with the long hair holed up in that shithole of an apartment. He kept yelling about how they couldn’t make him do anything he didn’t want to. Why sign up then? Just do as you’re told. Or that preacher hiding out in the warehouse. He looked surprised! Surprised! Couldn’t understand why we were bringing him in and all that! Then why’d you run and hide you old fool?”
The large man throws his arms in the air in disgust. As he brings them back down he catches his hands in his black hair, running his fingers down the length of his scalp.
“I’m fed up with’em. These people are useless. I expect it’s time for a change and if the people on top aren’t ready I’ll be ready for them.”
The van begins to slow down and the smoking man quickly dabs out his cigarette on the floor. The van stops and the back door swings open. The scene is idyllic, an open countryside cut in two by a narrow road. A small house sits on one side of the road, a tire swing hanging from a tree in the front yard. Wind whips by the open door of van as the men rise to leave.
The large man hops out of the van first and turns to the other two. His eyes light on them with a fierce intensity.
“Just follow my lead.”

*~~*

“As for your restlessness,” muttered the old man, “remember that you were called here for your past experience with the subject at hand, period. You may see what we’re doing here as a waste of time, but I assure you that as you grow older you will discover the value of words over action. Now sit down.”
Simon hesitated for a moment before treading back to his seat. At the same time Arnold slowly left his position from the wall and gathered the remainder of the dirty plates from his guests. The table was now empty save for a small centerpiece of spices and the telephone that had been requested by the party days before. Arnold pushed through the door to the kitchen when the phone on the table began to ring. As the kitchen door closed he quickly laid the dishes on the stove and put his ear to door. He needed any reassurance that this nightmare would eventually end and he hoped that this call might be it.
Through the door the hushed voices of his guests were barely audible save for Roland who, sitting closest to the kitchen, could be heard in spurts.
“You found…”
“Where?”
“…need to get in…”
“…don’t waste…”
“…borrowed time…”
The phone clicked down on its carrier and Arnold Cavenstein slid away from the door. He stood and returned to his position on the stove. He picked up his now room-temperature cup of coffee and took a long draw from the cup. As he churned the liquid in his mouth his gaze was once again pulled to the landscape outside his window. As he gaped at the magnificent view he wondered where all these fantastic events were occurring and what was compelling everyone to be so drawn into events that could only be reached by telephone.

Chapter 48

Witticker spent the remaining hours of daylight creeping after Edward through the ruins of the Queens borough towards an undisclosed location. As the very last moments of sunlight lingered on the horizon the two men arrived at the edge of a large river, flanked on both sides by crumbling stone walls. Across the water stood the remains of a grand and ancient city, towering in antiquity. Out of a nest of trees skyscrapers, remaining as monuments to the past achievements of man, cast massive shadows over the land.
As the two explorers walked the length of the river several small fires began to crop up on each side of the river. The flames were accompanied by small groups of native people, huddling close together. When the last glint of light had fallen from the sky’s edge Edward stopped and stopped to his knees. He waved his hand to the ground, motioning for Witticker to join him in the position.
“We need to be very careful until we see the sun again,” whispered Edward. “The natives of this area are mostly peaceful, but some can be very dangerous. They’re called city people. They are very territorial and are likely to overreact if they feel threatened.”
Edward pointed to a large bridge downriver in the direction that they had been walking.
“We’ll stay there tonight,” mumbled Edward quietly, “should be safe.”
Witticker nodded and followed him in silence.

*~~*

When they finally came upon the bridge they found a set of wooden platforms that had been systematically layered to replace the decaying set of stairs leading up to the bridge. Both men climbed up the wooden shelves and walked across the bridge until they were above the mid-section of the river.
“Alright,” said Edward, his voice returning to a normal speaking volume. “This should be good tonight. The tribes on either side of the river have never been able to successfully claim this bridge or the river as their own, so we should be on relatively neutral ground. We’ll stay here ‘til morning.”
Edward sat down on the metal frame of the bridge and leaned back on the small satchel hidden so deftly under his robe. He reached into his pockets and pulled out several rolls he had confiscated so long ago from the morning in Henry Dodgson’s dining room. He threw one to Witticker and tucked another in his mouth. Witticker laughed as he looked at the stale roll.
“I thought you were crazy when you took these from that old man.”
Edward laughed and shook his head.
“Crazy is a matter of perspective. You might want to keep that in mind in the next few days. You’re going to hear and see some pretty bizarre things.”
“I don’t doubt it” said Witticker, his voice completely devoid of sarcasm. He bit into his roll and, with much effort, gnawed off a small piece to work in his mouth. He looked down the river at the fires twinkling on both sides, as if lighting the way for the water to follow.
“Where did these people come from?” asked Witticker quietly.
“What do you mean, ‘where did they come from’?” responded Edward as if he had been slapped across the face. “They aren’t migrants. They’ve been here for centuries!”
“No,” said Witticker, realizing his verbal misstep, “I guess I meant, how did they become like this? So primal.”
“Ah,” answered Edward in a more thoughtful tone, “that’s a different story.”
He stopped for a moment and took another bite from his roll.
“It’s hard to know where to begin, but let’s see. I suppose it’s important to know that this area was subject to some of the worst fallout of the Great Decline. The city was highly populated in the years prior to the Decline and, when the economy sank, this region was host to more than its fair share of violent incidents. These people,” said Edward gesturing across the landscape in front of and behind them, “are the products of those times. They are the ancestors, like you and I, of the pre-Decline citizens, but they are not as accurate a reflection of their predecessors as you and I are. The city-dwellers of the past were as civilized as what you would expect from most other people. These people have, in most cases, been subject to the great horrors of this world and have simply adapted to survive.”
Both men sat in contemplative silence, staring down the length of the river. Witticker’s mind swam in the sea of information, not only from the most recent conversation, but from every conversation he had ever had with Edward.
“How is it you know so much about all this?” posed Witticker, “Not that I mind, of course, but you seem to have a pretty intimate knowledge of, well, everything.”
“Bit of an overstatement, don’t you think?” parried Edward who had finished his roll and was reclining against a thick steel girder.
“Not really,” snapped back Witticker, his discontent with the response well-voiced.
“Well, I was, at one point, taken to task on learning a bit of history. I’m just trying to put that time spent studying to good use.”

*~~*

The lights along the river slowly dimmed until they had all but gone out. The moon shone over the river banks, lighting an ancient scene of tribes returning to the city forest.
“So,” said Witticker after some time had passed, “where is it that we’re heading to over there? There doesn’t seem to be much in this city but leftovers.”
Edward shook his head and laughed as he turned to look across the island they were bound for.
“There’s a lot more going on in there than you’d imagine. Believe me.”
He looked back toward Witticker and yawned.
“And as for where we’re going,” he said with a knowing smile, “that’ll be a surprise for the morning.”

*~~*

Witticker sat awake on the bridge several hours after Edward had fallen asleep. He found himself surprisingly restless and had turned to sifting through the contents of his white box to pass the moments before sleep would take him. Over the course of their journey Edward had taught him how to properly access it and he had since become rather adept at poking through the white device when there was a spare moment.
At first the interface of the white box seemed rather simple, only offering the options of ‘visual’ or ‘aural’, but each spilled out into subsequent options and each of those doing the same implying an endless amount of functions. The general layout of the machine inferred that it was a memory recording device, but the submission policy was not prohibited to the user. It appeared to be possible for several people to add to the contents of the white box with only the owner having access to every item in the device.
Under ‘aural’ Witticker had found vast catalogues of music, hours of recorded speeches, and several miscellaneous sounds from nature. After listening to a random sampling of the music he returned to the beginning screen and selected the ‘visual’ option. There was a wealth of information including what appeared to be a small library, alphabetized by classification. Each label provided the title of the written work, the name of the author, and the date of submission into the white box. He sifted through the titles, unconsciously filtering, until one entry caught his eye, causing his heart to skip a beat faster.

“A Dream within a Dream”
Brisby Jacobs
March 25th, 2188

The light from the white box glowed around Witticker as he peered at the information on the screen, surprised by the significance he felt from the less-than-remarkable combination of words.

Chapter 47

“Do you accept a higher power?” chanted a man from a raised pulpit in front of a large cathedral. The question echoed from the vaulted ceiling through the ornately decorated wooden walls and down to the marble floors.
The congregation seated in wooden pews filling the length of the massive room responded with a mechanical ‘amen’ in staggered unison.
“Offer your prayers to that power now in this moment of silence,” bellowed the lector.
As the congregation bowed their heads Witticker became immediately visible in the crowd through his ignorance of the ritual. He panned from side to side, marveling at the massive audience all bowed down in collective mumbling. Suddenly he felt a sharp jab in his left side.
“Put your head down,” hissed Edward from his bowed position.
A cacophony of ‘Shh!’ echoed around the two men as Witticker quickly bent his head to the pew in front of him. He enjoyed the cool wood on his forehead as he carefully balanced himself against it. He closed his eyes and took in the silence of the room as his mind wandered to the events preceding their arrival at the church.

*~~*

Two hours earlier…

11:30 A.M. – Witticker and Edward exit a train in the borough of Brooklyn.

11:40 A.M. – The wave of arriving travelers are herded three miles from the train station to the nearest distrip, Braganza Plaza, in the borough of Queens.

12:30 P.M. – Upon arrival at Braganza Plaza the travelers disperse in several different directions.

12:45 P.M. – A bell rings in the plaza.

12:46 P.M. –Witticker, unaware of the custom of the area, is swept up into a crowd entering the Great Cathedral.

12:52 P.M. – Edward finds Witticker in the cathedral.

1:00 P.M. – The service begins.

*~~*

The silence in the room was broken by an explosion of sound from the organ in the front of the cathedral. Its sound, while emanating from the front, seemed to encompass the whole room. The congregation rose and sang in unison.

This God, in prayer and song,
Will pardon any slight or wrong
Committed by ourselves in word or deed.
We only need to ask and God will feed.

Our lives, in sin and pain,
Are only trod and toiled in vain
Unless we come to God with prayerful need.
We only need to ask and God will feed.

We fear not death or dark
For on us God hath placed his mark.
A sign unseen, but through our souls are freed.
We only need to ask and God will feed.

As the congregation sang each verse became louder and more emphatic than the one preceding. The hymn finished with an extended organ finale followed by several shouts of indecipherable, but fully convicted, words of praise from the worshippers. As the people slowly fell to their pews Witticker turned to Edward.
“What is going on? Where are we?”
“Just shut up,” whispered Edward keeping his face towards the front of the cathedral. “Shut up and keep your face to the front. This is not the time.”
Witticker leaned closer to respond, but thought better of it and sat back facing the front. He reasoned that Edward had been well-versed in the local customs thus far and it would be more than presumptuous to assume he was wrong in this circumstance.
As he began to listen he noticed that the lector had been replaced by a very tall and skinny man draped in black and green robes. His voice was remarkably low and rumbled through the cathedral as if funneled through a large megaphone. The priest-like figure began his speech by chanting in a monotone drawl, occasionally rising or dropping in pitch. Witticker, having missed the beginning of the chant, came in at the end.
“God, Father and Mother of these people, shed your light upon them and their troubles. God, Savior of our race, grant us peace through prayer and belief. Amen.”
The priest drew a large silver pitcher from the pulpit and poured a glass of water for himself. He took a long drink and after placed the glass on one of the pulpit’s many horizontal resting places.
“God saved us,” said the priest, pausing a moment for effect, “God saved us and continues to save us every day that we are not swept up from this land by the many savage and horrible devices of this world.”
“But,” shouted the priest, prompting the congregation to jump and shuffle in their seats, “will God continue to offer this saving grace? Is there any guarantee of remaining in God’s favor? Consider the beach tree. It does not fear the wrath of God and does not change its behavior to garner God’s good will, even in the longest of droughts. It is a solid and stoic representation of what we should all strive to be. Unmoved by the conditions or state of affairs that might plague us. Untouched by the forces that would seek to ruin us. Unchanged,” roared the priest, crashing his hand down on the pulpit and, subsequently, sending his glass of water hurling to the floor, “by the forces of this world that would seek to alter our way of life.”
He emphasized his final words with an even deeper and darker tone than before, letting the idea hang in the air for a moment before continuing.
“If you believe, like me, that this philosophy, this blessed ethos, is one that you want for your own then I urge you, take up this beach tree, brothers and sisters. Remain solid and true. Stay with the flock. Keep to your ways as you have in the past. Be kind to your neighbor and consistent in your dealings remembering that consistency is the truest sign of honesty. There is no cause to change your ways, just your inner attitude and outlook.”
Water dribbled from the broken glass next to the priest. It ran across the floor of the wooden podium, dripping down to the marble floor below.
“God wants you to be happy. God provides for those who want to be happy. We must remember that we are the catalysts! Were you happy before? Were you happy during the wars? Were you happy when food ran dry and fires rained down?”
The priest pointed into the audience.
“You, Abby Fordice, were you happy when your son was lost on the front line in Illinois? Or you, Jacob Ballanger, were you happy when your wife was slaughtered by a crowd in Cobble Hill? How about you, Rachel Persinger? Were you at all happy when they took the only man you ever loved and shot him in the forehead in this very square?”
“No! That’s not happiness! That’s not happiness and that’s not God’s doing! God want you to be happy! It was not God that brought the war and it was not God that took all those things from you. It was the work of evil men. Despicable minds with filth ridden causes and, what’s more, their work isn’t through. There are still people who would ask you to rise up. To throw away everything you’ve worked for and to toss aside the happiness that God has bestowed upon you.”
The priest reached inside his robe and produced a bright white handkerchief, wiping his brow which had become exceedingly damp through the course of his sermon.
“What can these people give you that you don’t already have? What are you in want of that isn’t being supplied? God is already filling you up with everything you need! There is no cause to fight for! There is no wrong to be made right! We are content because God is content with us and anybody who says otherwise is as empty as their words!”
The priest replaced the handkerchief within his robes.
“God wants you to be happy. It’s as simple as it sounds. Amen.”

*~~*

After the service had concluded the congregation poured out of the church into the open square. The plaza was circular and centered on a large plaster fountain with several menacing mermen lifting their tridents toward the large cathedral at the far end. The newly released mass of worshipers lingered, making polite and empty conversation. The crowd slowly drifted away until just Edward and Witticker sat next to the plaster fountain. Edward smiled up at the mermen, recalling the music hall so far away from them now.
“What exactly was that?” asked Witticker as he stared at the church towering above the plaza.
“You just experienced a service of the congregation of God,” responded Edward, “and, while I appreciate your inclination to ask questions when you don’t understand something, I’d like to remind you again that we are still being hunted. It might be our best bet to remain, for the time being, part of the crowd, so to speak.”
“What are you talking about? Those people aren’t after us. They don’t even know who we are! Besides, I was barely noticeable. You were the one talking and getting ‘shh’ed from every direction.”
By this time Witticker had stood up from the fountain and was pacing back and forth over the uneven street top. Edward reclined on the fountain edge, running his fingertips against the surface of the cool water.
“You’re a very stressful person to keep company with,” muttered Edward from his meditative state. “Your body language communicates a load of tension. Sit down and relax. I’ll explain a few things and then we can have a more informed conversation.”

*~~*

Selected excerpts from a lecture delivered in 2205 by Ronald Talcum, a specialist in religious history working in the New York Public Library.

“…The Great Decline not only took a massive toll on the physical and socioeconomic living conditions of the period, but also exercised a great overhaul on the emotional and spiritual principles of that time…”

“…The churches of the past, their roots invested in a corporate world, disintegrated into varying levels of chaos during the failing of businesses nationwide. A large majority of the population, hungry and homeless, looked to the church for help. Over time the need became too great and the church was forced to turn the crowds away…”

“…For several decades the public opinion of the church was recorded as an attitude of distrust and anger. The idea of religion in an organized fashion or manner gradually diminished and was eventually forgotten by all but a handful…”

“…In the late 2150s small congregations suddenly began meeting in distrips across the country for services led by members claiming to be the last ordained priests. These priests held none of their congregation accountable with offerings or attendance and preached on a wide variety of subjects from current affairs to spiritual obligation…”

“…The church has since redefined itself in the general population. No longer structured or operated as a corporation (i.e. taking donation, providing community service), the church now identifies itself solely as a lifeline of religious philosophy…”

*~~*

“So,” explained Edward, “the church currently has a foothold in nearly every distrip on the northern continent. Their congregations are a small percentage of the overall population, but their attendants are a pivotal sect of society. The church appeals primarily to shop owners and merchants due to its proximity.”
“Okay,” responded Witticker unenthusiastically, now sitting on the ground next to the fountain.
“Okay?” queried Edward, “not at all. There are too many unanswered questions. Too many holes in the framework. No one knows where the priests are coming from. It’s very dangerous to disregard the spiritual leaders of the population’s only economic instigators. What if the church decides that the trade of merchant craft is in opposition to its ‘holy work’? Half the nation starves over religious fundamentals.”
“But that wouldn’t happen,” argued Witticker. “The people wouldn’t just die. They would either find another way or revolt against the church.”
“Were you in the same service I was just in?” cried Edward, pulling out a cigarette from inside his robe. “People aren’t making decisions for themselves anymore. The whole message of the church is to maintain the status quo. To do what is expected of you and remain predictable, like the ‘beach tree’. They preach uniformity and fear. Those people do exactly as they’re told because the ones up in front put God on the other end of it. It’s a crock. They’re making complacency into a religion. Don’t think or you’ll go to hell!”
Witticker shook his head and looked to the dirt at his feet. Edward lit his cigarette as the sun banked across the plaza on its descent from the sky.
“The people aren’t stupid,” said Edward, putting his hand above his eyes for shade, “they’ve just forgotten how to think independently of the group.”
Neither man moved for several minutes as the sun crept lower towards the horizon, spreading the rays even wider across the expanse of the plaza.
“In any case,” forwarded Edward, “it's time we find a place to stay tonight. If we’re where I think we are I have an idea of where we can go next. Are you ready to move again?”
Witticker looked back at the church towering high above the plaza floor.
“Yes,” answered Witticker hesitantly, “and I’m sorry for arguing with you before. I guess I’m not as ready for this world as I thought.
Edward laughed and pulled Witticker up from his spot on the ground.
“No one is. But don’t take my word for it. That’s the problem they have in there. The world is truly what you make of it. For better or for worse.”
Edward tossed his cigarette to the ground, grinding it out with his heel.
“Now, if only everyone else knew that. That’s the trick.”