The Crossing

The Crossing

Daniel Beers

Copyright 2012, 2015 Daniel Beers

Smashwords Edition

This one is for Mos and Bazooka Joe

We only come out at night

The days are much too bright

We only come out at night

-The Smashing Pumpkins

Chapter 1

Tristan woke up from a tormented sleep. Everything hurt. Every muscle shouted pain, every inch of his skin crawling with pins and needles. His head felt the worst, the epicenter of an indescribable agony. There was a pounding sensation that kept rhythm with his heart, a heart that was beating so fast that it shook his whole chest with the intense vibration of a freight train. His stomach felt empty and tender, as if he had not eaten in days, maybe even a week. The only comfort to him was that the room was dark, as any light would have surely burned his eyes out and made the pain simply unbearable.

He opened his eyes and allowed them to adjust to the dark room. It felt unfamiliar. He was in a small space, no larger than a guest bedroom. There was a faint light forcing its way through two small filthy windows, where two thin colorless curtains hung lazily against them. The walls were covered with old wallpaper that was slowly peeling its way off. The air itself felt wet, thick, moldy, and unclean. The smell was of mildew and ripe decay.

He closed his eyes slowly and opened them again. The pain in his head was so intense that couldn’t possibly believe it was real. It blocked his thoughts. The very notion of memory slipped from his grasp. He tried to think of the last thing that happened to him, but any image coming into focus was cut off by the sharp throbbing daggers within his skull.

His senses were making it impossible to concentrate. The mattress he lay on had three springs that poked out of the seams and dug into his spine. The slightest movement intensified the sensation. And the mattress reeked. His nose, suddenly more acute than ever, was able to smell every bum and whore that sweated their essence into the mattress. The stench was nauseating. Between the mattress and sickening dense air, it was clear the building had been abandoned for years. But where was he? And why was he sick? The answers were simply not coming. There was a darkness that began consuming every thought in his mind. And the darkness was getting stronger.

He arched his back and heard a loud squeak from the mattress springs. The sound was so much louder than it should have been. In fact, everything was louder. Even the gentle rain outside was so amplified that it sounded like he was standing in the middle of swollen rapids ready to whisk him away to oblivion. He also heard a single moth in the room. The helpless insect was desperately trying to make it through the dirty windows. Each light tap of its papery wings on the dingy glass was deafening. He tried haphazardly to put his hands over his ears, but his joints and muscles were not following his simple commands. Something was happening to him. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but he had a sense it was going to be terrible.

He tried to lift his head. A sharp, almost electrical jolt of pain flowed through his whole body, causing a wave of nausea to hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. He was going to throw up, no question about it. And there was no way his body was going to let him roll over in time. His body began to shake.

Dear God, he thought frantically. I’m going to choke on my own vomit!

He let out small, weak, high-pitched grunts as he rolled over to his side. It was coming. Any second. His breath accelerated. The beat of his heart was quicker, the throb in his head matched it haunting tempo. His body seized. He let out a much louder cry. The sound left a dry echo throughout the room. It pierced his eardrums. He heaved twice before he started vomiting. When it came, it came in droves. Most of it managed to escape the mattress, but not all of it. He felt the slimy warmth on the side of his cheek. The smell made everything worse. He moved as carefully as he could to put his body into the fetal position, just trying to avoid as much of the rank liquid as possible.

Just close your eyes, he thought. Try to breathe slower. Relax.

To his surprise, it actually helped a little. His nausea began to fade, which was a tremendous relief. His heartbeat slowed and the throb of his head had subsided. He tried to convince himself that it was a case of mind over matter, that all he had to do was breathe, to just stay alive. It seemed to be working for the time being. But more trouble was on the way. He would have bet his life on it.

He opened his eyes once again. Everything was blurry. He kept blinking over and over again to try to get his eyes to focus. Within a few moments, he regained his sight. And it was shocking how amazingly well he could see in the dark room. The small amount of light was more than enough to be able to see as if it was daytime. It was at that point he noticed that he was not alone in there.

A dark figure was on the opposite side of the room, sitting upright in a chair and facing him. He blinked a few more times to get a better look at the person but fell under another instantaneous wave of nausea. He inched closer to the edge of the bed, confident he was going to throw up again. As he did so, he could feel his stomach muscles pull out more than before, causing him to let out another weak yell. He winced at the sound of his own cry. He had vomited twice as much as the first time.

When he was finished, he rolled on to his back and sighed repeatedly, no longer caring whether or not he lay in the sick. Nothing mattered anymore. Finding out the mysterious figure’s identity was simply going to have to wait as well. He practiced slowing his breathing down again. His heartbeat eased up, but he feared again that it wouldn’t last long.

What is your name? the figure asked abruptly. The voice was masculine, cool, and relaxed. The volume was loud, but Tristan found it surprisingly bearable to his ears. There was a certain relief in the idea that if he was about to die, he was not going to do it alone. The man’s tone was comforting, almost serene.

Tristan, he replied panting. His voice was weak and strange to his own ears. He sounded so foreign to himself. Even saying his name didn’t sound quite right. It was like someone was speaking for him. I’m Tristan.

Tristan, the figure echoed. Your name means ‘sad one.’ How fitting. The voice had an accent for sure, but Tristan was unable to trace it. Eastern European maybe. Definitely Slavic.

What am I going to do with you, Tristan? the man asked, his voice quieter.

Tristan then heard the figure reach for something through the sound of moving fabric. Every movement was unnecessarily loud. He turned his head around to face his new acquaintance. The figure pulled out what looked like a long pipe from his jacket and put it to his mouth. He then took out a book of matches. Tristan put his hands over his ears when the figure struck a match on the back of the book. He screamed in agony. He closed his eyes, the look of raw pain remaining on his face.

The figure did not seem to notice or care about Tristan’s pain. He lit the contents of the pipe and leaned back a little more into the chair. There was a loud crackling sound, followed by thick puffs of white smoke which began to resonate throughout the air. Almost instantly, Tristan could smell that the man was smoking some strain of opium. The sweet odor was unmistakable. He felt a sort of relief that it was taking over the other noxious odors of the room. He curled back into a ball, still facing in the direction of the man in the chair. He waited for the man to continue speaking, but heard nothing. The mystery man just sat still as thick smoke danced around him.

The man wore a long dark trench coat, and what looked like sunglasses. The outline of his face was long, narrow, with fairly long hair flowing around it. He had the look of a chivalric hero from some forgotten minstrel lay.

After minutes of bearing through the sharp pains from heaving, Tristan got the nerve to try to sit up. He moved over to the edge of the bed, counted to ten, and allowed his legs to drop to the floor. He had just put his shoes into his own vomit, but he didn’t care. The arm he used to prop himself up shook under the weight of his body. After a short moment, the muscles in his arm gave out. He fell back to the mattress. Then he immediately felt sick again. He vomited more than ever. The sharp throb of pain in his head returned once again. He jerked and convulsed, his body unable to do much more than breathe.

I think it would be better if you just lay still, the man in the chair said simply. There was no sense of necessity in his voice, as if the very words he spoke trivialized what Tristan was going through. You are definitely going to need your strength for the next few hours. It will only get worse.

After another minute, Tristan was back in the fetal position, staring at the man in the chair. He shivered violently. Half-questions ran through his mind.

What the-?

Where the-?

His brain could not gather the strength to form them into complete thoughts. Giving up, he tried focusing on breathing slowly again. It was a temporary fix, he knew, but the short breaks felt like they were enough to keep him from passing out.

Finally, after gathering enough of his own brain power and the strength enough to speak, Tristan was able to ask a question.

Who are you? he asked. His voice was hidden and muffled. If Tristan didn’t know better, he would have thought his voice belonged to someone else. There was no familiarity to it at all. The pitch seemed lower, older. It was as if he had aged fifteen years since he last spoke and had been smoking like a chimney for thirty years prior to that.

But I don’t smoke, he thought, as a terrifying notion struck him.

I don’t, don’t I?

I’m one of you, the man responded. And you’re damned lucky I noticed you. He took a long drag off of his pipe and blew the smoke through his mouth. It flowed like water around him. Damned lucky.

But who are you? Tristan asked again. His rapid panting began again, his shivering increasing. He was starting to taste the sick bitterness of vomit once more. The familiar warm saliva filled his mouth. He tried to breathe slower, but his body wouldn’t let him. His throat was raw, his stomach muscles ached.

I can’t take much more of this, he thought nervously. My God, I feel like I’m going to die! And I don’t want to die in here! Not like this!

My name is Locreus, the man in the chair said. He took his glasses off and leaned his elbows on his knees. And I’m afraid the rest of the questions are probably going to have to wait until tomorrow night. You may be too late as it is. Locreus stood up from the chair and walked to the bed. There was no urgency to his walk. It was as if he was on a pleasant stroll down the block. Tell me, what do you remember?

Tristan closed his eyes and shook his head. I don’t know what you mean, he said between heavy heaves of breath. His shaking continued. I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know where I am and I don’t know who you are.

Locreus leaned down to look at Tristan face to face.

It was at that point Tristan was able to see Locreus close up for the first time. Tristan recoiled at the sight of the man. Locreus looked strange. His face was pale white and completely smooth. There was not even a single blemish on his skin. He had shoulder-length hair that was parted down the middle. His face was long, almost gaunt, with an extremely neat goatee that expressed both maturity and wisdom. But Tristan could not place an age on him at all. He could have been twenty-five or sixty. What he thought had been sunglasses were really just spectacles tinted a very light blue. They now hung along the collar of a white buttoned-down silk shirt. Those eyes were his most striking feature though. Tristan thought that maybe the lack of light was playing tricks on him but the eyes appeared completely black.

Locreus stared at Tristan for a few moments before he spoke. I want you to think very hard, he said in a firm and sincere tone. His pacing was slow and direct, as if each word he said was more important than the last. I want you to search inside, dig deep, and find what you can. And keep it in your mind. The longer you wait, the less you’ll retain. Do you understand?

But why—

It doesn’t matter why right now, Locreus hissed, still staring into Tristan’s eyes. Locreus began to roll up his left sleeve up to the elbow. His arms were just as white as his face, but there was strength in them. Primal strength. Locreus continued, You wouldn’t believe me right now anyway. Think of your childhood, your birthday, your wife if you have one, your children, where you live, where you work, where you were yesterday, when you last saw the sun. Remember everything if you can. It will be easier for you on the other side.

Tristan began heaving again. Locreus casually stood up and moved to the side as Tristan vomited on the floor once more. Tristan’s teeth felt like they were on fire. His throat was swollen and difficult to breathe through.

The other side?

Was that what that strange man had said?

Tristan began to cry. A single tear flowed down the side of his face. He could hear the salty liquid drip to the mattress. He screamed, MY GOD, WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?

Locreus leaned back down to Tristan again and stared into his eyes. You’re changing, he said softly. He pushed Tristan’s hair to the side of his face and wiped the tear track from his skin. Dying, really. Your body is rejecting the change, as every form of life does when it is confronted by its inevitable end. Try to remain calm and retain what’s left of your brain. Try to remember who you were. Locreus then pulled out an intricate double-bladed dagger from his coat. There was a small bend to the blade and the handle looked as if it were made of solid gold. It was clear the weapon had been made by a highly skilled craftsman. At first Tristan thought that Locreus had meant to kill him. He had to admit, he wouldn’t have been able to do anything to stop him if he was. And if the pain kept up, he might even have welcomed the idea.

But then Locreus held it to his own bare arm.

Changing? Tristan asked in a way that sounded more like a statement. His eyes were full of tears now. His breathing became more erratic. What do you mean changing? What’s wrong with me? Am I really dying?

Stay with me, Locreus went on. He gently sliced a little skin from his arm until blood came pouring out in a steady narrow stream. He held it above Tristan, letting blood fall over his face. What is your last name? How old are you? When was your birthday?

I’m… My birthday… My birthday…

Locreus waved off the questions with his other hand and asked another. Do you live in this city?

This city? Yes.

What’s your address?

I… I live on 27 Main St. Room 228. Second floor. Tristan felt drops of blood enter his mouth. The taste was sweet and wonderful, like the most refreshing drink he had ever had before. Did he just mention where he lived? He couldn’t remember anymore. And what was that man doing? Was that stranger really putting fresh blood in his mouth? He started to pull away his head away from the dripping, but his body seemed to welcome it.

Do you remember your parents?

Tristan stared at Locreus and after a few moments shook his head. Drops of blood rolled down both sides of his face. He sobbed. More drops entered his mouth. He licked his lips.

I have parents, he thought angrily. Don’t I? Why can’t I remember that?

Do you have a job?

I have a job! Tristan screamed through sobs. His head jolted back in pain. He screamed. The intensity of the headache was unbearable. He was sure he had a job. He shut his eyes and tried to envision it. He saw himself walking. Walking somewhere. Behind someone? Not following. Trailing someone. Trailing someone for a long time. But who? The rest was fading.

Where is your job? Locreus went on, seemingly ignoring anything beyond the questions and answers. Blood still trickled from his arm into Tristan’s mouth.

I… I don’t know, Tristan whispered through deep quick breaths. His eyes were still squeezed shut. Who was he trailing? Why? Where exactly did he work anyway? It was on the tip of his tongue.

Where were you yesterday? What was the last thing you remember?

Tristan tried to fight through the pain.

Yesterday, he thought. What was yesterday? I was working yesterday. I’m sure of it. It was—

Do you have a wife? A girlfriend? A boyfriend?

Tristan opened his eyes. A small glimpse of recognition was in his mind. A beautiful woman with dark hair. Dark eyes, wild and stunning. I have someone, Tristan shouted in a loud and broken tone. His breathing no longer sounded human. It sounded more feral, more animalistic. I have… I have… Vee. I have Vee. Her name is Vee!

Do you know where Vee is right now?

Tristan closed his eyes again and shook his head. Vee, he muttered between infrequent breaths. His ears began to ring and his hearing became more and more acute. The rain turned into a deafening static. The moth wings pounded on the glass harder than before. He felt his thoughts and memories melting away, his brain shutting down piece by miserable piece. CHRIST, SHUT THAT FUCKING MOTH UP!

Do you have any idea who did this to you?

Tristan shook his head quickly. What did he mean, Did this to him? Did what to him? He had no clue.

When was the last time you saw the sun? Locreus said gently. His tone had changed completely. This time it was soft, sincere, and full of emotion. His eyes no longer looked deathly. They seemed to be legitimately caring.

The sun? Tristan asked. What about the sun? Earlier today? Yesterday? I don’t know… I don’t know. Am I dying really?

In a way, replied Locreus.

Oh God, Tristan whispered. He shivered uncontrollably. The rain outside screamed in his ears. The flapping moth hammered into his head. The intense smell of the opium burned his sinuses. His heartbeat began to drown out everything. The world became blurry again. He let out what he thought was the loudest scream he could possibly allow with the little strength he had left. He felt like puking again. But there was no way for him to be able to move this time. His joints were frozen and his muscles were arching in violent spasms. It was coming.

But then suddenly and thankfully, Tristan passed out. As he left consciousness he heard four final words.

Tristan, remember the sun.

Chapter 2

Tristan woke up with a start. His body took in a large, deep breath as his eyelids snapped open. He was in a dirty old hotel room. Familiarity overwhelmed him. He had definitely been there before. The rank, uncomfortable mattress was unmistakable. But where was he exactly? He remembered being sick, sicker than he had ever been, and he was fascinated at how much better he felt. The headache was still there as well as the thud of his heartbeat throughout his whole body, but it was still a huge improvement from before. The nausea was completely gone. His joints and muscles no longer ached. Even his throat didn’t feel sore. He sat up in front of the smelly mattress and put his palms over his eyes and breathed deeply. He wondered how long he had been out. A few hours maybe. Hell, it could have been a few days. His sickness must have taken just about everything out of him.

The sickness. What had been happening to him? It couldn’t have been bad food. He had no idea what he could have eaten. He remembered—

Questions that he had been asked. But who was asking? There was someone with him before. He was sure of it. Faint images were coming back.

What’s wrong with me?

Tristan, remember the sun.

The room still smelled of opium. But maybe he had been imagining the whole thing. It was certainly possible. It could have been some wild and extravagant hallucination the illness brought on him. The fever alone could have easily brought that out. He looked down at the dark floor. He saw the dried vomit plastered in the worn carpet. He closed his eyes again and let out a large sigh. It was real, alright. The puke was the proof. It had all been real.

Tristan, a soothing voice said in front of him. Tristan jumped and jerked his head up. A man sitting in a chair looked back at him. Now he was definitely familiar to Tristan. The hair, the coat, the face, those eyes! It was all coming back to him in a rush of images.

What is your last name?

How old are you?

When was your birthday?

Do you have any idea who did this to you?

Tristan, remember the sun.

Locreus, Tristan said aloud, unsure of what he just said. He stood up quickly, keeping his eyes on the man in the chair. Then realizing he was going to lose his balance, sat back down again. His mind raced. What kind of name was Locreus? Who in the hell was this guy exactly? He had no idea. He could only just stare at the man, his mouth open in wonder.

That’s correct, Tristan, Locreus said and smiled. The smile looked both pleased and sinister. You remember. I was worried you might not. Yes, my name is Locreus. And your name is Tristan. Tristan what? What is your surname? One of Locreus’s eyebrows was raised to a sharp point.

Tristan looked at him puzzled. I’m Tristan… My name is Tristan… His memory stopped short. Nothing was coming.

I can’t remember my last name, he thought. How can I not remember that? This doesn’t make any sense.

It’s all right, Tristan, Locreus said sincerely. He reached into his coat and pulled out a pipe and a small book of matches. Most people can’t even remember their first name without help. Do you remember where you live?

Who are you? Tristan demanded. He wanted his voice to sound angry, but it came out terrified. It sounded different too. Raspy almost. Why can’t I remember anything? Where are we? What’s going on?

How bad is your head right now? Locreus asked tilting his head a little to the right. You’ve been without real sustenance for two days. Is it just screaming out or do you think you’ll be able to take a walk with me without losing control?

You know it’s rude to answer a question with a question, don’t you?

And who taught you that?

Stop doing that!

Please, Locreus said holding his hands up. Indulge me. Answer my questions. I’ve never seen this resilience in a new seed before.

I… I don’t know, Tristan said, defeated. He felt his head ache a little more. His brain felt strange, as if tiny fingers were massaging thoughts out of his head.