Part 22 (1/2)

”You'll get your crazies that will start putting their suspicions to the test. People will start jumping off buildings, driving cars over cliffs. Shooting themselves or whatever just to see. And they will. They'll all live, Tony. It will only take something truly horrible to put the nail through that people can no longer die. Then...”

Lucy's face was true. ”Chaos.”

”Chaos?” Tony tasted the word as sour as cheap booze.

”Yes. What do you think will happen when people realize they can't die?”

Images and sensations blurred through his mind, all stamped with the word chaos. It sure as f.u.c.k would be chaos. And that was putting it lightly. He took a deep breath and fixed her with a look devoid of hope. ”So what do we have to do?”

”We,” Lucy stated quietly, another tear slipping down her face, ”have to find Frank.”

Chapter 27.

Fear hated walking. f.u.c.king despised it. Walking was for losers, and he was getting more and more p.i.s.sed that only losers walked. Only losers walked. The short message replayed itself in his head. He took a few steps and cursed walking as walking was, again, only for losers. He was far from being a loser. Yet, here he f.u.c.king was. Walking.

Why didn't he get a car? He could afford it. Easily. And one with a G.o.dd.a.m.n better sound system than that rat-f.u.c.k Tony had in his piece of s.h.i.+t car. Fear could not believe his luck. Of all the wonderful sound systems available in cars today, he had been stuck in a f.u.c.king antique. And a Ford at that! How the h.e.l.l anyone could drive anything made by Ford these days was beyond him. He was a firm believer in Toyota. The j.a.panese knew their cars. And the Germans. It struck Freddy as odd then that the two losers of the second Great War were putting out the best cars. Almost like a very quiet ”f.u.c.k you” one might try to disguise in a cough. And you could buy beer practically anywhere in both countries.

The fires in Fear burned mightily as he trudged onwards through the blackness of night on that lonely strip of highway. Freezing wind smacked him in the face, and snow lashed his flesh, melting on contact. He had been on the road for hours, it seemed, and four cars travelling past had not stopped to pick him up. Anger. Fear was so incredibly p.i.s.sed off. p.r.i.c.ks. They were all p.r.i.c.ks. Two cars had slowed down, but they had only slowed down for a moment before bolting like discovered deer. Almost as if they had sensed who he was at the last possible second.

Freddy did not give a rat's a.s.s. Not a ball's deep donkey f.u.c.k.

He was Fear. Fear walking. Fear incarnate in G.o.dforsaken flesh.

And on this cold night in March, in total darkness made only deeper when watching the red receding lights of cars drive away, Fear was totally consumed with rage.

Walk it off, he told himself. Walk it off. Turn the negative energy into something positive. He saw it on a health show once. Anger Management. They had suggested yoga and meditation, too, but like f.u.c.k Fear was going to get into a lotus position out here. f.u.c.k that. FFFFFFF-and he really could not stress the 'F' sound enough-FFFf.u.c.k that.

And it was all because of Tony. And that b.i.t.c.h Lucy. Fear was actually more p.i.s.sed off at Lucy than the Mundane. The b.i.t.c.h. Picking her a.s.s up did not allow her to get him kicked out of the car in the middle of nowhere. And kicked him out she had. She nullified the control Fear had put into the little s.h.i.+t Tony. Tony had been all his, and it was just like her Highness to stick her a.s.s down where it wasn't needed or wanted. Fear could have completed the task without her. And what was she doing out there on the road anyway? Did Time figure someone else should accompany Tony? If he hadn't wanted Fear to go along, then why a.s.sign him in the first place? Jesus, it was infuriating to be subjected to such inefficiency. Hate wasn't an emotion unknown to him. In fact, Hate and he had done quite well together in cards. But Fear did just as well on his own without Hate. Fear did just f.u.c.king fine.

He stomped his way along the Trans-Canada, in the night, stopping several times to bellow ”f.u.c.k THIS!” at the blackness surrounding him, and then kept right on walking. He walked on for what seemed to be an eternity and that got him thinking about Time again. Why hadn't he manipulated time for Fear to make this little stroll go faster? Someone was going to have a serious G.o.dd.a.m.n talking to once Fear got home.

He kept on thinking black thoughts even as he came to an off-highway exit. Fear did not acknowledge the sign. He just walked down the slope, steaming his way through the gathering snow like some prehistoric machine. He paused once at the base, roared ”f.u.c.k THIS!” and continued on again.

Traffic increased along this new strip of road, but not one slowed for him. It was well past midnight. f.u.c.k them too.

f.u.c.k them all.

He eventually walked into the edge of town, the lights of the houses glowing in the distance. He saw the glow of the Black Bear, a roadhouse bar, and marched towards the war-bunker shaped establishment. The place probably looked its best in the winter when it was covered in snow with a background of black timberland. Bars like this on the fringe of town always made Fear think of the clientele it served, so-called hicks and hard a.s.ses. Townies. Fear didn't care. He was p.i.s.sed, and he wanted a shot. He made his way toward the Black Bear. As he drew closer, he saw how the exterior paint was old and how it lacked windows. Obviously the owner didn't give a d.a.m.n. The signal sign in orange light illuminating ”The Black Bear” hung to the upper right of the doors. A snow covered veranda lay to the left of the doors. Fear thought the whole place would probably have been torn down and replaced by a condo the next time he was in this part of the country.

Just then the double doors burst open, and two of the local boys stumbled out into the night air, laughing and swearing loudly. One tried to slam the doors, but the spring mechanism mounted at the top of the frame would not allow it. With a drunken roar, he heaved his shoulder into the door. It closed immediately. Someone shouted from within.

”f.u.c.kin' whatever!” shouted the one that did not attack the door. His friend giggled hoa.r.s.ely at that, the same kind of high pitched giggle that marked the annoying sidekick of a bad 80's movie bully. Both men squared off at each other, then, like apes pus.h.i.+ng for territory. They started swearing.

Stupid f.u.c.king apes.

Fear walked towards them, hands shoved deep into his pockets. One of the apes, a young college boy type perhaps already flunked out of university due to excessive drinking, saw Fear approach. His red eyes opened wide at the potential amus.e.m.e.nt here.

”Hey Stevie, lookit!”

Stevie. Fear despised it when grown men insisted on ending their names with an 'ie' or a 'y.' It sounded stupid to him. Davy, Stevie, Terry. The bile started to rise just thinking about it. No doubt the monkeys ahead thought it the coolest thing.

”Lookit, Stevie! A bald night owl!” and a finger pointed. The man drew breath to laugh.

And Fear unleashed himself.

The monkey that had been smiling suddenly clamped its jaws shut. His eyes bulged and he staggered-flung-himself backwards. Stevie did the same, pus.h.i.+ng himself away from the night owl with a terrible, mindless energy only reserved for when one was truly in mortal danger. Stevie's buddy fell back five feet and landed on his a.s.s, arms and legs still moving, still trying to put distance between him and Fear. Stevie launched himself into and over a wall of piled up snow, his legs swimming in the air as he took himself out of sight.

Fear's being hissed. Fear was power, even over those as blasted with spirits as these two. The fact that they had been drinking enabled their dull senses from being utterly paralyzed by the blast Fear sent in their direction. They should have been curled up on the ground, vomiting whatever was in their stomachs onto their silk s.h.i.+rts.

Fear, the mortal equivalent of his true name, marched by the helpless men. They were no threat to him or anyone for the rest of the week, and many people would be wondering how they got their premature grey hair. Fear was power. Fear was control.

And right now, Fear was p.i.s.sed off with existence.

As he entered the Black Bear, cigarette smoke enveloped him and accosted his senses. The drift of pot was in the air. He made a face at the smells of sweat, tobacco, booze and puke, and the parasitic partying accompanying them. The doors closed softly behind him, still functioning despite the earlier battering. People looked him over once, people on the dance floor glanced in his direction as well, and then went right back to their mindless courts.h.i.+ps and revelries. People ringing a pool table looked him over. They went back to their game. People mingled and mashed together underneath the roof of the Black Bear, completely oblivious to who had just entered their midst.

f.u.c.k them all, Fear griped and made his way towards the bar. He wasn't in the mood for concealment, and he projected a steam shovel of terror before him. The mortal ma.s.s of bodies parted for him like a greased zipper. Where there were packed people standing shoulder to shoulder at the bar, now there was only an empty s.p.a.ce and the bartender. Fear cleared elbow s.p.a.ce equal to about three bodies on either side of him. Behind him, the dance floor raved on to some music where the beat was louder than anything else.

The bartender, a big man in his forties and covered in a ma.s.s of black pubic hair, stared at the strange newcomer with the oddly shaped head as he stepped up to the bar. Fear regarded the man. Perhaps this was the black bear himself? He looked fierce enough.

Fear pushed, and the faade of the man split like cheap plywood.

”Whiskey,” Fear commanded, placing a single finger down on the bar where he expected the drink to appear.

The Black Bear steadied himself, and blinked at this character's gall, doing an admirable job of fighting down his fear. Fear allowed him so that he could be better served. The Black Bear reached for a bottle of Jack Daniels. Fear saw the bottle and approved. He was a fan of Jack's. The man did good work. Fear could feel eyes on him still, but no one dared approach. At the end of the bar, a drunken man kept himself upright through blind determination alone. A pay phone was on the wall, and the receiver was practically in his mouth.

”DO YOU SCREW?” he shouted into the device. ”DO YOU SCREW? I SAID DO YOU SCREW?”

Fear shook his head. It was fools like this that gave Mundanes a bad rep. And it was fools like this that gave him the most resistance. It was always the spirits they drank. Call it confidence or courage, but Fear knew it was really a lack of intelligence and willpower to simply give oneself up to the drift of alcohol or any other vice.

”DO YOU SCREWWWW?” the drunk wailed into the telephone. He became angry with the telephone then, and slammed the receiver back into the cradle. Black Bear turned at the noise, pausing in the preparation of Fear's drink. The drunk glowered at the bartender, ”f.u.c.k YOU!” he lurched, sticking his chin out.

The Bear had stopped pouring.

That irritated Fear.

Fear fixed the drunken man with a look. The drunk saw him, and his frame sucked in air, no doubt to spray forth another 'f.u.c.k you.'

Fear unleashed himself at the man like a missile.