Someone Came With Her, Part 4

Huh.  What the hell was that?  Some sort of atmospheric anomaly?  Okay, so that's a pretty weak explanation, but there isn't much else you can think of.  Whatever the case, your curiosity is piqued.

Maybe there is an opportunity here.  If that weird stuff starts happening again, you could take a video of it.  That shit would go viral, no doubt.

But there is another factor that urges you to the radio tower, something that you can't quite explain.  You feel a slight surge of the anxiety you felt earlier in the morning, but quickly ignore it.  Your gut instincts don't have a very good track record, if that incident at Red Lobster last week was any indication.

As you approach the radio tower, you notice that a dusty black sedan is parked nearby.  It seems you're not the only tourist here.

The base of the tower is boxed in by a rusty fence, preventing you from reaching the ladder.  No matter; you're not one of those idiots who needs to climb everything taller than ten feet.  You just want to get close enough to get a good photo in.

As it turns out, there's more than enough opportunity for a picture, but not in the way you expected.  As you get closer to the tower, you see that numerous odd items have been arranged in a circle around its base.  It's a motley collection of masks, bronzeware and small sculptures.

Someone weird guy's art project, perhaps?

You hear a rush of air off to your left, and turn to see a tall man wearing a glossy black coat.  He is peering curiously at you, as though you're yet another strange little artifact.

“You are an intruder,” he says.  There is no emotion in his voice or his face.  His eyes are a dull black, the same color as his matted hair.

“Look man,” you start.  “I'm not looking for trouble. I just wanted to see what was going on, that's all.”

“Are you one of them?” he asks.

“I'm sorry?”

“One of -them.-”

“I don't know what you're talking about...”  Your heart is starting to race faster.  You suddenly get the image of this freak burying your corpse in the desert sands.

“I am not a murderer,” the man says.  “And I have much better ways to dispose of...unwanted things.”

Okay, so apparently now you're dealing with a -telepathic- freak.  Panic is starting to grip you.  You stare at him, wondering when your legs will decide to stop locking up and let you run far, far away.

“I am going to ask again,” he says.  Now a smile is finally creeping onto his gaunt face.  “Are you one of them?”

Fight or flight?  Flight, you decide in a flash.  Without another word you turn and run, hoping that the bastard's black coat will give him heat prostration if he tries to chase you.

Suddenly it feels as though you've slammed your shins into a concrete block.  You tumble over, crying out in pain.

“You are wise to be frightened of me,” the man says as he paces up to your rolling form.  “Have I introduced myself?  My name is Maximilian Trask.  I am the last and greatest sorcerer on Earth.”

That sentence would have made you chuckle in the past.  But here, out in the desert with no one but you and this madman, it is the most frightening thing you have ever heard.  As if the situation wasn't mind-rending enough, you can't shake the feeling that some small part of you had -expected- this.

“You caught me in a good mood, so I will give you one more chance to answer the question.  Are you one of them?”

“Stop right there!” a familiar voice cries out.

You roll on your side, still in too much pain to stand up or even talk.  It's that jerk from the bar!  He's standing about twenty feet away, his face set in a scowl as he trains a chrome revolver on Trask.   A young guy is standing by his side, looking distinctly worried despite the taser he's holding.

Slowly and mockingly, the psycho holds up his hands.  “Ah...so he was the bait,”  he says.  “Your timing is a bit off, though.”

“Shut up!” the jackass-turned-savior snarls.  “Now listen real close, twinkle toes.  I want you to pack up those little nicknacks of yours and get the hell outta my town.”

Trask gives him a thin smile.  “Such a performance.  I almost believe you really -are- just a backwater squatter, Aaron.  Would you like to explain to these gentlemen why you're so interested in the portal? Or why--”

Looking about as friendly as a rabid wolverine, Aaron cocks the hammer on his revolver.  “I ain't in much of a talkative mood, you see?  And if you're smart you'd do a little less talkin', too.  Now get to work before I blow your goddam head off.”

Your head is spinning, and it's not just from the pain or the heat or even the fear.  The nagging sense of deja vu has become almost unbearable.  It seems to erode your sanity, scattering your thoughts like leaves.

“This is getting tiresome,” Trask says, yawning.  He glances up at the bright midday sun.  “Ah, it's time.”

“Time for what?” the young guy asks.

“Time for our departure!” booms Trask, his voice deep and inhuman.

Through the fence at the base of the tower you can see a pitch-black sphere materialize.  Despite emitting no light, it leaves a searing bright afterimage in your vision.

This all happens in less than a second.  Aaron and his companion look every bit as wide-eyed as you are, and Trask doesn't let the distraction go to waste.

“Let the broadcast begin!” he laughs.  Blue streaks of lightning leap from the tower's metal frame, stabbing into the dark sphere.   The wind howls like a hurricane, nearly deafening you with the sheer noise.