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
