SOMETIMES THE GOOD GUYS LOSE

 

Is this the end for the eternal orphan, Major Richard Blaine?

SOMETIMES THE GOOD GUYS LOSE

“We are strong when we have prepared our minds to die.”

– Napoleon

 

I wondered if there would be enough of me left to bury.

When a pioneer died on the Oregon Trail, as some unfortunate soul was always doing, the family scratched a shallow grave right by the trail, because the wagon train couldn’t wait.

Everyone continued behind the oxen across the empty desert and some families sang “Amazing Grace” that night, and some didn’t.

No shallow grace for me.

Neither Cthulhu, nor its children, nor Michael would leave any of my Spartans alive to dig one for me or for one another.

My spine firmed.

No shallow grave for me … or for any of my friends … not today.

Michael was now only seven feet in height. Tall enough to let me know he still felt above me.

If that was important to him, then, he was smaller than he realized.

I looked into his oddly slanted eyes and grew sad.

They had seen the birth-swirl of galaxies, spinning in their slow arabesque across infinity. A waltz of intricate beauty and majesty.

The ears hidden by that tumble of long, thick leonine hair had heard the Voice when He spoke all of creation into being.

And what had this Being of haughty demeanor learned?

I spoke softly, “Apparently, not a damn thing.”

“And what have you learned, O Chimpanzee?” rumbled Michael.

I thought for a slow heartbeat.

“That my birth did not cast a shadow on my life, leading to my death. But rather this Cross was here from the very beginning, and it cast its shadow backwards to the orphanage.”

I extended both artificial hands palm up. “And that ‘Yes’ you spoke upon your arrival came, not from you, but from your Commander-in-Chief.”

I wiggled my stiff fingers. “The sword, please.”

Again, the rumble, “This cannot be held by mortal hands.”

I shrugged. “Fortunate then, that these are not mortal hands. The sword, please.”

Darael sighed. “Its weight will wrench those hands from your wrists.”

“Only if I thought to hold it by my own strength alone. The sword, please, Michael.”

I wiggled my fingers, praying that my instincts, my faith were sound.

The Voice that trembled the very marrow of my bones murmured within my mind. ‘You will have to pay to find out, Richard Blaine.’

I whispered, “You already paid, sir.”

I looked to a very pale Michael. “The sword, please.”

The Archangel slowly, reluctantly drew his sword, flipped it with a twirl of grace, and, holding the naked blade in his gloved hands, stopped with the gleaming hilt just an inch above my open palms.

“Are you certain?”

I quickly flicked a last look on the face I had held in my dreams for so long, for so many lonely nights.

I smiled. It was even lovelier than I remembered all through the pages of my Book of Days.

And sadder.

But that is the price of love.

Love is much like holding a candle in your bare hands. At first it illuminates the world. Then, it starts melting and brings its pain. Until at the end, it snuffs out forever.

And everything is darker than ever, and all you have left are the painful burns from holding it so close for so long.

But even then, you know love was worth the pain.

I turned back to Michael. “Yes. The sword, please.”

The weight of it.

Not the weight of the world. Maybe its sins? It took all I had … but I did not drop it.

I would not. I did not.

Like aboard the Rocinante, all during those harrowing days at St. Marok’s, and all through those damn chess games with Mr. Morton … I held on. I held firm.

Michael, the strangest look on his high-cheek-bones face, murmured,

“What are you going to do now? Slash at Cthulhu’s ankles?”

“Watch,” I gasped, struggling to keep hold of the sword.

Being alive had a purpose.

There were no accidents.

We had to pay attention. Look back to see if we had been given a compass instead of just an interesting bauble.

We weren't born just to live a life and then die.

We were born to accomplish something specifically, given experiences to help us do just that.

Like I was given the ability to teleport … by Elohim.

It all clicked into place.

Success is not just existing. Success is making it to the end of why you were born.

As I had made it to this moment.

I looked to the head of the truly disgusting Cthulhu.

“Lobotomy time,” I rasped.

A lance of sheer agony sliced through my very being.

But I held on, held firm.

Through tearing eyes, I saw that I stood with a lot of difficulty atop the glistening head of the Elder Being. I would not dignify it by calling it a god.

I slipped. Merde. I would not be able to stay atop this slimy scaled thing for long.

Its face tentacles roped up to seize me. Close up as they were, I saw the writhing suckers.

No.

My original plan to stab down into the head and slide down its face was definitely out. What was I thinking, right?

I spun about to take the back route.

Worse idea.

I slipped and fell. I stabbed down with Michael’s sword to keep from falling.

The blade made an obscene squishing, sucking sound as it pierced right between the Old Ones widened eyes.

It reared its head back as it screamed a high-pitched wailing that chilled the very essence of my being in some unnatural way.

Hanging onto the sword for dear life, I slid along the head and then down the back of its skull.

What to do now?

I hadn’t gotten past this point in my plan.

‘Plan? You call this a plan? We gave you all those chess games with Our Adversary as practice, and this was the best you could come up with?’

I heard a low muttering within my mind. ‘We should have learned from what Adam did with Our gift of Eve.’

“A little help here,” I gasped.

‘Bother. You will tumble like a gymnast when you hit the ground. You are one of König’s Master Race now, remember?’

“With Cthulhu on top of me!”

‘Oh, your mind, along with the minds of the others, will be destroyed by Cthulhu’s Death Wail long before then.’

“What?”

Elohim sighed, ‘We suppose you want Us to help you with that, too.’

“Yeah, kind of.”

‘You won’t like it.’

“Kind of desperate here.”

‘Old story with pleas to Us. Oh, all right. But remember We warned you.’

There was a flash of brilliant light, a piercing bone-numbing cold, replaced with the heavy humidity of the tropics.

I hit strangely rutted ground with a lithe roll as Elohim had promised.

And best of all, no crushing weight of Cthulhu atop me.

Helen was suddenly in my arms.

I had to maneuver Michael’s sword to keep from cutting her. Odd. It seemed to weigh hardly anything now.

Helen kissed me so passionately it took my breath away.

“Oh, Richard! I thought I lost you.”

Then, she all the joy out of the moment and kicked my shin. Hard,

“That for scaring me.”

Taylor, keeping with tradition, asked, “Major, do they have pineapples in France?”

“What?”

Evans snorted, “I got a better question, Stewart. Where did all the buildings and bodies go?”

Rachel, giving Helen an odd look, saddled up beside me. “We aren’t in that village anymore, are we, Richard?”

Cloverfield rasped, “We’re still there … in a way. The contours of the land are the same. It’s everything else that’s changed.”

Kent, to my right, pointed up. “No. No! It can’t be. Can’t be!”

Beside him, Dickens took off his helmet and ran bloody fingers through his hair.

“Undeniably so, Alfred. That is without a doubt a living, flying Pterodactyl, properly called pterosaurs, which belong to the taxonomic order Pterosauria.”

Elohim told me I wouldn’t like how he saved us.

‘Sentient, just how far back in time are we?’

No answer. Long seconds of silence. That was odd.

Doc Tennyson sighed, “Major … I have some bad news for you.”

I turned to see our doctor kneeling beside the unmoving body of Sister Ameal sprawled upon strange looking grass.

“She’s dead, sir.”

I almost dropped Michael’s sword.

“No neck pulse. No breathing. Major, your friend is dead.”

 

“When the sun sets like fire, I will think of you. When the moon casts its pale light, I will remember you. Should a soft rain fall gently, I will stand in it, recalling the last time I saw tears run down your face.

 Good fortune go with you into the darkness at your journey's end. Let the waters run calmly for you, my oldest friend.”

- Prayer for Sister Ameal

TO BE CONTINUED IN

SAME AS IT NEVER WAS

BOOK II

THE LONG WAY HOME

You might want to listen to this tune as you read Richard Blaine's prayer for Sister Ameal: