Novum Est

So often we start by saying, In the beginning.

This does nothing justice.

There was... There is... Chaos. The Mother.

PROLOGUE

A lone pick-up truck sat outside the bar. The bar sat on the side of a dusty, two-lane road, in what was sure to be a small town. Bobby Gardner finished his beer and thumped it down on the bar, for effect. The sun was just beginning to show itself over the distant, purple-hued ridges.

Hey George... How ‘bout another round for the boys? The speech was a bit slurred.

Don’t you think it’s a bit early to be gettin’ drunk, Bobby?

Aww lighten up, ya nerd. It’s my day off.

George filled up three more glasses. He let out a long breath and scratched at his greying stubble through the bar rag, as he did. Bobby took a deep, satisfied drink. The Boys were still on their first round.

A shiny black sedan rolled up to the front and stopped, partially in view through the door, though the early light and the dust always created somewhat of a filter to the outside. The door opened and a suited leg and dress shoe stepped out onto the dirt, a recently-finished cigarette butt soon following. The slack and shoe belonged to a well-dressed man, who closed the car door and lit another cigarette, in no particular hurry. He wore a nice suit with a bolo tie: sophisticated dress, and fitting for the area. His hair was slicked back and he wore dark glasses. He finished his cigarette and stepped through the threshold.

Fewie, sure is a fancy-lookin’ car you got out there, friend, one of The Boys said.

The other nodded in agreement. Bobby seemed unimpressed, or slightly annoyed that the group’s attention had shifted from its leader.

Aww, that thing? Shit man, that’s probably like, just some old Pontiac or somethin’.

The well-dressed man walked past The Boys and sat next to Bobby. George turned around and set down the unused glass he had been wiping with his rag. Bobby looked from the well-dressed man on his right back to his friends on the left.

You know what Pontiac stands for, don’t ya? He nudged his closest friend with an elbow and winked. Bobby and The Boys laughed. George and the well-dressed man did not.

Can I get you something?

Liquor. Your choice.

George turned around to grab a high-ball glass, and reached up for a bottle. Bobby took another sip of beer and turned to the well-dressed man, his stare a little too close.

What’s the matter with you, lose your sense of humor as a kid or somethin’? A little slurred.

No, no. I’ve just... heard that one before. A long time ago.

George set the glass down and filled it with a brown liquid.

Well excuse me, Mr. Comedian! Bobby had thrown his hands up in half-joking exasperation. Please then, enlighten us with a joke.

George turned around to continue cleaning the unused glasses. The well-dressed man took off his glasses and carefully folded them, setting them down on the bar.

Never been much for a teller of jokes. Just stories, mainly.

You don’t have to be a weirdo about it partner, I’m just ribbin’ on ya.

I suppose I could whip something up for the occasion, nonetheless. Let’s see... The well-dressed man paused for a thought, taking a small sip of his drink.

A man walks into a bar, sees two rednecks trying to screw in a lightbulb. He took another sip, this time a longer one. Bobby and The Boys listened.

Now one of ‘em, he’s definitely supposed to be there. He has his task, his purpose if you will. The lightbulb must be screwed in, and he is that catalyst. But that second redneck... well, his whole sad purpose might just be the punchline of some joke about inconvenient time and placement.

Bobby looked at his friends, who could only shrug their shoulders.

So what is that punchline then, friend? one of them asked.

Right, right. He looks at his friend with the lightbulb, looks at himself, then looks outside at the world and says... The well-dressed man stared down at his drink and let out a sigh. What the fuck am I doing here?

He finished his drink, and then stood up, taking his glasses from where they sat on the bar. I gotta piss.

Bobby and one of The Boys said nothing. The other drank his beer. George had turned around to face the bar. They all watched as the well-dressed man made his way to the bathroom and stepped inside.

Inside the bathroom, the well-dressed man looked at himself in the mirror. He straightened his bolo tie and flattened his shirt with his hands. He flicked his right wrist and a sleek device snapped to his hand; in the same fluid motion, he pressed a button on the device and the small, baton-shaped object began to quickly coalesce. Bands and flashes of energy swirled, either futuristic or magical in nature, and the device took a new shape. A short instant later, the well-dressed man held a pistol in his hand. He turned towards the door.

It burst open into the bar, and the well-dressed man followed close behind. He fired three quick shots. The Boys had but a moment for recognition after the first shot hit Bobby in the forehead and sent him and his stool careening backwards. The three young men lay dead on the floor, their bodies and barstools splayed out, smoke curling up from the singed, almost cauterized holes in their faces. The only blood was the already coagulated bits inside of the holes. The well-dressed man turned to George, gun still pointed.

Sorry, friend. I liked you more than the others.

George had an odd serenity about him. He wiped the bar. Unruly boys aside, the opinions of a kid-killer don’t sit too highly on my list of things I give a shit about.

It’s a bit more complicated than that, I can assure you.

Not from where I’m standin’.

I suppose not.

The two stared at each other in silence. George suddenly dashed to his right, in hopes of reaching the door. The well-dressed man tracked his path and fired a single, accurate shot. George’s momentum carried him, his arm sweeping across the back counter of the bar and knocking bottles and glasses to the ground. They shattered around his body as it contorted and slumped into the corner of the space behind the bar. The well-dressed man fired another final shot, hitting and destroying the corded telephone near the door.

*     *     *

Outside the bar, Sam Gardner stopped his bike, setting a leg down on the ground to steady himself as he raised a hand to his eyes, shielding them from the low-hanging sun. He was younger than Bobby by many years, but his eyes wore an age that even Bobby had yet to reach. He spied Bobby’s truck in the distance, parked next to the bar. Sam pedaled over to the truck and lifted up his bike, setting it down in the bed. He kicked the front tire as he walked past, as he had often seen his brother do.

Hey Bobby, Mom says— Sam walked into the bar and saw nobody inside. The stools were overturned. Sam looked around, confused.

Bobby?... George? He walked over to the bar. Where is ev—

Sam saw George curled up on the ground. The hole in the side of George’s head looked up at him. Sam’s face took a moment to catch up with his insides. Outside, the shiny black sedan’s engine roared to life. It peeled off in a cloud of dust and exhaust.

Sam stood in the doorway and watched the car recede into the distance. He glanced to his left. Only a small chunk of the phone still hung from the cord. Sam ran outside. There were only two roads into and out of town, and they ran perpendicular to each other. A shiny black car would keep to the roads, but a truck could cut along the hypotenuse.

The keys were still in the ignition. Sam gunned it, bouncing and barreling diagonal across the rough terrain as fast as the old pickup could handle. He squinted his eyes, focused on the approaching street. The shiny sedan flew through the main intersection, skidding and sliding before disappearing in another cloud of tire smoke and exhaust. Sam came to the end of the shortcut too late. All he could see was the top of the car as it neared the road’s horizon. The well-dressed man cranked the emergency brake a second time, drifting into a hard left turn.

The forest? The adrenaline was already present. He needed no extra moment to realize and react. Sam slammed down on the pedal in pursuit of the killer. The truck flew down the road, barely keeping in control. The street was empty in the warm morning. Sam soon came up to the narrow opening and traded the truck for his bike. He knew these woods. The branches and bramble were thick.

Sam raced through the trees. The forest cut and swiped at his arms and face. Before long he saw the shiny black sedan, crashed into a space between two trees too narrow to fit through. Smoke came up from underneath the dented and torn hood. Sam skidded to a halt and crept forward, moving silently from tree to tree. He could hear a light crackling sound, like faulted electronics. Sam slowly peered around a thick trunk.

Most of the glass had blown out of the windows and windshield before the car hit the trees. The door was ajar, and the well-dressed man was not inside. The crackling noise was not coming from the car. Sam heard it still in the distance, and saw faint flashes peaking over the top of a rock outcropping.

He navigated through the rocks. He knew where to climb across and where to jump down into the correct crevices. The path led to a small clearing near a widening in the creek. Sam dropped down onto the ground. Dry leaves coated the area. The flashes were much brighter now, and the crackling noise had become a loud cracking and snapping sound. Sam pressed his body against the large rock. He inched his gaze further out, just enough for a corner of the outermost eye to see a slice of what lay beyond the rock. It was nearly too bright to see anything at all.

The well-dressed man was crouched down, turned away from Sam. He tinkered with a device on the ground. It looked like a manhole cover, but it cracked and buzzed and flashed a kind of energy from it. Three smaller pieces sprang out from the device and hovered in the air. The flashing and buzzing became brighter, and louder.

The well-dressed man stepped onto the device and the smaller pieces slowly began to orbit around him. The energy moved through all the parts, flashing and flaring brighter. The well-dressed man dimmed from view, lost in the growing field of electricity and light as the whirring pieces spun faster. Soon they seemed a single object, and the field was so bright the well-dressed man could barely be seen inside. Sam held a hand to cover his eyes. The flashing brightness was burgeoning out from the electric field, pulsing and filling the clearing with blinding, opaque light.

The light and noise and motion crescendoed, and for a moment there was nothing but bright, pure white in a final flash. Sam fell backwards, still shielding his eyes. The light faded, throbbing more softly as color and vision returned to the clearing. It was empty. The well-dressed man was not there. In the place where he stood, the dead leaves were burned. Sam was unable to comprehend. Still, some subconscious force compelled his legs forward to investigate. The killer wasn’t there. It was impossible. Nothing remained.

Sam noticed a faint buzzing sound. He looked around, and saw a small arc of electricity hanging in the air. It was not attached to anything, it simply danced in a small space five feet above the ground. Instinctively, Sam stuck out his finger and touched the arc. It shocked his skin and disappeared. Darkness overtook Sam’s senses, and he fell to the ground.

They have been called many things.

Light and dark, yin and yang, form and antiform.

Even good and evil, from crude enough mouths.