"Night, the mother of fear and mystery, was coming upon me." — H.G. Wells, War of the Worlds.
The next day, Richard sat on the kitchen's hardwood floor leaning against a cabinet, his head cradled on arms crossed over knees. Rays of light from the late-afternoon sun tried to push through the window above the sink but the forest-covered mountain behind the estate allowed only flickers.
He concentrated on the sound of a wall clock tick-tick-ticking away. It told him much.
The ticking clock told him the generators had not kicked on meaning the electricity flowing throw the mansion came from Pennsylvania Power and Light.
Each tick spoke of another moment past; another moment Richard Trevor Stone lived. How many people died in that same moment? How many Ashleys vaporized? How many Bobby Westons crushed? How many fathers and mothers mutilated to the point that a son could mistake them for shaggy, rolled carpets?
Richard jumped to his feet and slammed both fists on the island counter. A cup and saucer rattled.
Tick, tick, tick.
He saw them hovering in the hall. Tyr and Odin stood at the lead of a line of dogs crowded together, their eyes focused on him.
Per the Old Man's instructions, Rich had cleaned himself up and collapsed on the living room sofa for a night of surprisingly restful sleep, and then raided the commercial-grade coolers and pantry for food.
Of course, he realized the second gift but did not know how to use it. He could…he could… sense them thinking. Not voices, not quite. Images, but not pictures. More like feelings.
That strange key lay on the counter, exactly where he had left it upon returning from the basement earlier that afternoon. Richard grabbed it and faced the window over the sink. He caressed the key between thumb and forefinger.
Now this. The thing in the basement. No, beneath the basement. The key led to a place much deeper than any man's cellar. Down there, behind the cabinet next to the water heater in a tiny room waited a door that Richard opened with a key meant only for him.
What he found down there had been bright and painful, sort of. It caused him to feel lightheaded and he still did not know its purpose. He wondered if he had retreated too quickly. Perhaps he needed to do something. Push a switch? A chant? A magic spell? A- "WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?"
He yelled to no one. The dogs shifted uneasily but remained focused on him. Waiting.
A small songbird raced by the window, chirping farewell to the day. A subtle wind swayed branches.
Tick, tick, tick.
Richard stuffed the key into a pocket in the navy blue sweat pants he wore with a matching sweat jacket. The clothes came from a gargantuan closet filled with outfits in his size, even though the man in the pictures above the mantle appeared fifty pounds heavier and half a foot taller.
After taking a deep breath, he faced the dogs.
"What do you want from me?"
We are yours to command.
The answer did not come in words; it came in some other manner that his mind translated into language. It did not come from their mouths, for their jaws did not move; they made no sounds.
"How is it you know what I'm saying?"
We are yours to command.
"How can I hear you? I don't hear your voice. Am I reading your mind? Are you reading my mind?"
No answer.
He stepped closer and thought 'sit.'
The dogs did nothing.
He spoke aloud, "Sit."
The dogs did nothing.
He closed his eyes and pictured the dogs sitting. He opened his eyes and saw that, once again, they had done nothing. He tried again. He summoned the image of a dog sitting and, at the same time, called, "Sit."
All the dogs in the hall sat. They sat fast and perfect, as if snapping to attention. The cumulative sound of so many canine rumps hitting the floor created a solid thump.
"I have to speak. You have to hear my voice. But it's more than that, isn't it? Something in the eye contact; something in my vocal cords, and my thoughts. Something in the combination, brain waves and vocal cords or something. I dunno. Maybe…maybe it's like ultraviolet light. Yeah, I mean, some light has shorter wavelengths then visible light and people can't see it. But bumblebees can see ultraviolet light. Amazing. Must be something like…like…"
Richard cocked his head to one side.
"How the hell do I know that?"
The lightheadedness returned. He snapped his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand while the other steadied himself against the kitchen island. He saw a laboratory and men wearing goggles working near a big tube of mercury vapors as they prepared to activate an electric current that would artificially generate UV rays.
Not a dream… memories.
He found his balance but his body shook; it shook from fear. Basic fear much as he had felt when confronting the thing that killed his parents. Except this time, he felt no fight instinct only flight: the urge to escape.
"This is a mistake. Do you hear me? This is for someone else, not me!"
He strode directly at the mass of dogs. They parted, making way for their master.
We are yours to command.
"I don't want to command! There's been a mistake!"
Like a spine, the hall ran the length of the mansion from back to front and Richard walked it at a fast clip. He passed the first floor guestroom, the den, the dining room, the front stairs leading to the second floor, and the living room with the big fireplace. He exited the front door, crossed the porch, and plod over the lawn. He marched for the main gate. The dogs followed in two columns.
Last night, when he arrived, he left the gate open because he did not know how to close it. As he walked through this time, he remembered that two keypads-one on each side of the fence-could open and close the gate with the correct entry code; a code he now remembered. Where those memories came from presented a bigger question, but a question he no longer cared to have answered. Or, rather, he feared the answer.
What is happening to me?
Fully gassed cars, motorbikes, and more waited in the garage, but Richard wanted nothing to do with any of it. He did not want the three gifts. He would leave the same way he had arrived: on foot.
At the first bend in the road, he came upon a white and blue Harveys Lake police cruiser idling on the shoulder near a lakeside boathouse. Static crackled from the radio therein.
"Hello! Police!"
Richard sighed in relief as a uniformed policeman rose from the far side of the car. And kept rising.
The policeman rose ten feet into the air as the front half of his torso stuck out from the maw of a ten-foot long red and white worm. Surrounding the jagged fangs along its round mouth watched black and red eyes. That mouth sucked in the lifeless officer in gulps. One…two… three…gone.
It eyed Richard straddling the yellow lines in the middle of the road. Its round mouth hissed; the fangs worked out and in, the ribs along its tubular body moved the creature forward as if swimming. It bumped the squad car as it hurried toward new prey, causing the vehicle to skid sideways; the tires chirped.
Its mouth and fangs spread open. Sickly secretions dribbled and a smell like rotting garbage gust out as it lunged.
A German Shepherd leapt in front of Richard, jumping into that lunging mouth; becoming the predator's next meal in place of the master. The other dogs rushed forward and barked furiously at the worm-thing as it swallowed the yapping Shepherd.
Rich watched with his eyes fixed not so much on the creature but on what the dog had done.
Its hunger satiated, the worm swam away across the pavement, disappearing along the muddy bank under a boathouse.
Richard ran back to the estate. The dogs swarmed in behind. He entered the code from memories he should not have and the heavy fence closed, locking out the world.
Dozens of dogs hovered around in a semi-circle as he collapsed on the front porch.
"Go watch the front gate or something. Leave me alone!"
All the dogs trotted to the front gate and spread along the fence watching the road and raising their noses to the air searching the wind.
Rich watched in amazement.
Yours to command.
He finally understood.
The dogs were his. They did not merely belong to him; they were an extension of him. They would do his bidding without question. He could order them to jump into the lake and they would, one after another. They would leap into the mouths of monsters-gladly sacrifice themselves-so he could live. They would follow his orders completely, without wondering if those orders were right or wrong, no moral judgments, and no arguments.
Tyr bound to his master and relayed what the acute canine noses and ears sensed in the air. He relayed that information through feelings and impulses: feelings and impulses Rich's mind translated into something like words.
People in homes, some alive some dead. Musty smell of something big in the woods to the east. Guns firing on the far side of the lake. Helicopter coming.
Richard stood and drifted across the lawn. After a minute, a green dual-rotor Chinook chopped overhead flying west to east, the sound bounced around the lake basin.
Should he signal the helicopter? Might they rescue him?
No. Whatever the helicopter's destination, it flew to a place more dangerous than the estate. The world out there, beyond the fence, was disintegrating piece by piece.
Richard could not comprehend why these gifts had been granted to him of all people. However, he now knew he belonged at the estate. It was his; he owned it. Just like the dogs. The man before had merely been a caretaker.
The helicopter disappeared beyond the mountains.
– Richard pushed aside the plate of crumbs that had been a roast beef sandwich minutes before. He reached to the carpeted dining room floor and grabbed the rifle he had found in the elaborate basement armory.
Even before arriving at the estate, Richard would have recognized the gun as a military assault rifle. Now he knew more.
He held a Colt M4 carbine. The weapon weighed a hair under six pounds, sported a barrel length of fourteen point five inches, fired with a muzzle velocity of 2,900 feet per second and energy of 1,645 Joules, all while shooting the full range of 5.56 millimeter ammunition within an effective range of 600 meters.
No instruction manual came with the rifle; he did not read about the specifications of the M4, he remembered them.
Stone stood and the gun settled into position against his shoulder in a manner consistent with the army handbook. That day marked the first time in his life he ever held such a thing, yet it felt familiar to him.
"Yes, I know how to do this. I remember."
With his finger inching toward the trigger, he aimed toward a chair at the far end of the table through the iron sites, envisioning it to be- The dining room blurred and disappeared; his balance wavered. The walls of the mansion no longer surrounded him. He stood on a dusty street against a stone and mud dwelling. Metal cookware hanging from a drying line strung across the tight passage rattled in a gust of wind. A pair of goggles protected his eyes from grains of sand and dirt blowing around. He heard a voice over a radio talking to his unit leader.
"Repeat, Super Six-Four is down. Chalk four, what's your ETA to the crash sight?"
Shouts behind him.
"Skinnies!"
"Technical in the square!"
A burst of machinegun fire.
A Toyota pick up truck rolled into a dilapidated square in front of the soldiers. A man wearing a bandana over his face fired rounds from a heavy machine gun mounted in the truck's bed while a mass of civilians carrying AK-47s followed behind the Toyota.
His shots killed two of the militiamen, but for every one that fell another swarmed in from a side street, or a rooftop, or an alleyway.
"RPG!"
An explosion knocked him…
…to the dining room.
Richard dropped the weapon and staggered. His hand grabbed the high-backed chair at the head of the table but he managed only to pull it to the ground with him. Man, chair, and carbine fell to the floor.
Tyr, the Norwegian Elkhound, raced in.
Are you injured?
– Tall shelves lined the walls of the largest room on the second floor. On those shelves, he found maps, charts, and reference books covering topics from plumbing to computing. Like the rest of the mansion, the style resembled something vaguely Victorian but without the usual frills.
A door led from that library to the master bedroom and its attached full bath. The antique bed and dressers there gave the room a cozy, old-world feel as did a big thick rug and a barrel-top desk dating to the early 1900s.
Stone rested the M4 on a nightstand, took off his sweat jacket, and sat on the bed. Tyr and Odin stood nearby.
After falling over in the dining room, he had focused on communicating with the dogs. Following two hours of trial-and-error, he managed to organize them into groups, including several patrols of three assigned to walk the perimeter fence while others occupied static guard positions.
Rich gave Tyr and Odin quick pats on the head.
"I'm getting the hang of this. You guys are starting to understand me, and this whole memory thing…well I've never felt like this before."
With each passing hour, he realized the power of the gifts, particularly the power of knowledge.
"Boy, things would have been a lot easier in the old days with something like this. I mean, if my car broke I had to pay fifty bucks an hour for some grease monkey to tell me there's a loose wire. What if I could fix things that broke or I knew all the answers about financing without going to Mr. Munroe? I mean…really."
With the knowledge unlocked in his new memories came confidence and strength. He would not shoot his foot with the guns. He could plant a garden and grow vegetables and he felt the keen instincts of a hunter so if the pantry ran empty he could slay white tailed deer or rabbit, skinning and harvesting those kills with the skill of a seasoned taxidermist and butcher.
What kind of person would he have been in the old world with the benefit of these memories?
Such confidence would have spawned the ambition Mr. Trump thought Dick lacked. With the memories of the world's greatest entrepreneurs, he could have turned his business degree from that community college into a thriving enterprise. With the expertise of a veteran financial planner, his investments would have turned to gold. Imagine how fast he would have climbed from third string Safety to starter with the memories of football's greatest players!
Perhaps one did not need supernatural powers to be superman; perhaps it merely required knowledge.
"Wouldn't that have been something, huh guys?"
No reaction from Tyr or Odin.
Richards's cheerfulness faded.
"Oh, I get it. No small talk, is that it? We're not going to share any jokes? Tell me, why do dogs sniff the butts of other dogs?"
He laughed.
The dogs did not respond.
Richard stopped laughing.
"I see. Well, even with you around, I'm still alone, aren't I?"
The dogs did not respond.
"Okay then. Good night."
Before his fingers touched the light switch, the room went dark. The stream of power from the outside world finally ceased.
He froze in the darkness for one second…two…three.
Richard heard a distant click followed by a whir. He heard circuits snap and felt electricity flow through the building again, but when the light came back on it shined a shade dimmer.
He swallowed hard.
"The generator kicked on."
It felt as if the drawbridge rose above the moat, cutting off his castle from the world.
Richard sucked a deep breath. The memories from the man who lived there before presented a mental checklist: The generators are working, but I'll need to start maintaining them now. Spare parts are in the garage. Keep an eye on the coolers. If anything goes wrong on a hot day those coolers will lose temperature in a few hours and spoil everything. Be sure to check the wiring again. The last thing I need would be for…
"Enough! Everything is fine. Go to sleep. The dogs are keeping watch, I have this gun here, everything is going to be fine. I'm just going to hold up and see what happens."
He switched the light off and lay in bed. The night before-the first night-he had fallen to sleep fast on the sofa from pure exhaustion. The second night went much different.
Every noise sounded mental alarms. A gentle breeze or the breath of a gigantic beast? The coolers downstairs humming away or the flapping wings of a nocturnal predator? The crunch of canine footpads on patrol, or an extraterrestrial hunter stalking the estate?
Richard fidgeted and rolled. He flipped the pillow over and over. He drifted into drowsiness only to jump awake at the thought of approaching horror.
Long after midnight but hours before dawn, barking dogs kept him awake. First one, then a second, then a chorus of growls and snarls from outside. His eyes popped open and he lay still in the bed, listening.
Tyr hurried into the bedroom. A communication came clearly: something trying to get in.
"Chase it away," he said as much a hope as an order.
Too big.
Whatever threatened the grounds needed to be dispatched by Richard's arsenal.
The dogs outside yapped and howled yet Rich did not move. He did not want to move. He would stay in bed and hope for the best.
Then something else caught his attention. A sound? A tremor? Not the dogs barking or the monster prowling: this came from inside the mansion and he knew-instinctively knew-it to be different.
Energy? No, that was not quite right although as his brain tried to categorize this sensation it translated the feeling into growing noise or increasing power. The source? Again, inside. Somewhere…somewhere below.
Yes, that was it. The place beneath the basement. The place where the key led.
Down there under the heavy stone foundation and deep beneath the ground lived the third gift from the Old Man: the thing that gave Richard the memories of the professor studying UV rays, the experiences of the soldier wielding a carbine, the plans of the man who had owned the mansion before him, and many other memories that would take months- years — to fully know.
His mind's translation of that sensation tuned finer; he understood the sensation grew not because it became louder or increased in power, but because it moved closer. Closer to him.
This time, the third gift did not wait for him to use the key. It reached from the depths beyond the locked door, rising into the basement and toward the stairs.
Richard sat up. The dogs continued to bark and growl. He heard shrubs and trees ruffle as something big probed the perimeter fence for a means of entry.
And still the third gift rose through the mansion: the first floor hallway…the steps to the second floor…up it came…
He shivered and sweat. It was supposed to stay down there until he needed it! Why did it come out? It had no business leaving its hiding place.
…the top of the stairs…into the library…
"Go away!"
The power of the third gift poured into his room like a gust of wind. He grabbed his head with both hands and shut his eyes, refusing its invasion but he stood no chance.
The Old Man's voice said, "What, Trevor, you thought this gift came for free? You didn't think there'd be a price to pay?"
Memories and experiences blasted into his mind: the soldier lugging his M4 on patrol under an African sun, the big man who owned the mansion driving a luxury sedan with a cigar dangling from his lips.
"You think you can just hold up here until the cavalry arrives? Oh, now Trevor, don't you get it? You ARE the cavalry. Everything in here, it's for you but it comes with a price, Trev. Now let's settle up that bill, shall we?"
Richard left the bedroom behind for a bright hot day on a dusty street where a column of soldiers darted between buildings, threatened by mobs of ragtag militia.
"Two skinnies on the roof!"
"Chalk Four, get your asses to the crash site!"
"Move, move, move."
As he jogged around a burned-out car, something bounced off what metal remained on the frame. Something else exploded in the dirt near his heavy boots. Those somethings were bullets.
He raised his carbine and returned fire.
"Keep moving! Go! Go! Go!"
A "Little Bird" MH-6 helicopter flew fast and low overhead, sweeping its mini-guns across an intersection and blowing a tornadic swirl around the advancing soldiers.
More bullets came from open windows and from behind burning tires serving as makeshift barricades. One of the 'skinnies' poked his head around a corner and shot. Rich raised his rifle but found no strength. His arms simply would not rise. Then he fell backwards as if someone swept his feet out.
The pain came next. A hot, searing sensation around his collarbone.
What is this?
His limp body bounced against the hard dirty ground. He felt his Kevlar helmet roll away.
A voice hollered, "Man down! Medic!"
Rich could not feel the tips of his fingers or his toes but he did feel the terrible burning near his neck. He wanted to put a hand on the hot spot but his arms would not respond.
Then he was moving again, dragged by the straps of his assault vest.
"Hey! Hey, stay with us! You hear me?"
The voice faded.
He no longer felt his arms or his legs. Something funny about his breathing, too. It felt…his breaths felt… wet. He coughed. Something warm tickled over his lips.
I am dying. All for what? Did I make a difference?
One last shiver traveled his spine and his body twitched. The numbness moved inward, sweeping over his chest and covering his eyes…
…Richard-sitting in bed on sweat-soaked sheets-gasped as if he had been holding his breath. A feeling like static electricity hung all around. A balance remained…
…The man stood at an office window gazing at the eclectic mix of old and new buildings in downtown Wilkes-Barre. The remains of a loaded Philadelphia Style Cheese Steak-his favorite-lay half-eaten on a massive leather-trimmed desk.
Rich felt the sadness in the man as he thought about all the preparations at the mansion. The man knew those preparations were not for him. He served as a tool. After everything he had accomplished in his life, all the jobs he created, all the investments that paid big dividends, he found that, in the end, he was merely an implement of something far greater than himself.
Some power consumed him-perhaps for longer than he realized-consumed him to the point of chasing away family and friends. The irregular pounding in his chest suggested that the time to discard the tool fast arrived.
The man knew something bad was coming to the world; a thousand horrible ways to die waited on the doorstep. The growing pain in his chest would be his reward, sparing him a more horrible fate.
A sense of purpose drove him for years; a purpose he could not explain to his partners or family because he could not explain that purpose to himself. Like an addict in the throws of addiction, that purpose forced him to inexplicable behavior. He bought guns and generators, tons of food for people and dogs, constructed fuel tanks into the beautiful grounds of his multi-million dollar estate, built a helicopter pad for a man who owned no helicopter, sold a classic Porsche for military Humvees and a modified RV. The list went on and on.
He stood at the window and felt his heart chug. The last pinholes of circulation in an artery filled and closed. A strain grew in his chest and caused fire to race through his veins. A soft gasp puffed from his lungs; he hunched over and rolled to the floor.
Whoever you are, the man thought in his dying moments, make it all mean something…
…Richard clutched his chest and felt the fast beat of his own healthy heart.
Yet a balance remained. More memories flooded in, memories stretching hundreds of years, generation after generation of Americans, Europeans, Africans, Asians, and more. Each contributing skills to help him fight and survive in the days, weeks, months and years ahead. Dying moments and shattered dreams; the anguish of great hopes dashed by a twist of fate; the collective triumphs and failures of his race, he made them all his own.
The third gift gave Richard-no, Trevor — everything he needed to fight on behalf of his people, and a charge to give it meaning. The weight of the world, the Old Man had warned, was coming down on Trevor Stone's shoulders. Now he carried that weight.
He had never felt so responsible. Indeed, he had never truly understood the word 'responsibility' before. Not like this. Not the way in which Presidents and Doctors felt responsibility. The responsibility of life and death; of nations and cultures; for things much greater than any one person.
For a species.
After a while, he fell out of bed. Tyr stood and watched stoically, relaying the need for help. The dogs still barked. The intruder still searched for a point of entry.
Trevor paused on his hands and knees on the thick rug. His stomach tied into a knot, his arms quivered, beads of sweat covered his body, his breath came in bursts.
The weight of the world.
He hauled himself to his feet, wavered, and then found his strength.
The first night at the estate he had not known what to think or do. By the second night, he accepted his gifts but, arrogantly, thought there no consequences. Now he realized he had much to learn. And much to do.
It would take time and it would take change. Just as the knowledge imparted to him by the third gift gave him confidence and strength, the price of that knowledge and the responsibility to be worthy of receiving it, sat inside his belly like a seed of things to come; a cold seed he would nurture with commitment, patience, and focus. A seed that would sprout and grow and swallow whole the man who had been Richard and give life to Trevor. There could be nothing other than the one purpose.
He grabbed the carbine bought for him by the man who had once owned the estate. He marched from his bedroom armed with the expertise to make that weapon precise and lethal; knowledge granted by a dead soldier.
Outside waited the first of many nightmares he must face; nightmares that haunted the long night into which he and his people descended.