Bane

January 22, 1998

Hinges creaked as the storm strained against the door of Frank Sullivan's cabin. Outside, the wind howled through rattling tar shingles on the roof.

The window shutters shook over their windows, but the latches refused to come unhinged.

Inside, a thirty-three inch black and white television played War of the Worlds. The broken v-hold, every so often, insured the video on the screen rose up, and lapped itself.

It was not so distracting that it interrupted his enjoyment of the film in it's original black and white.

Sure.

They weren't the fighting machines from Wells' works, like the illustrations by Warwick Gobels in the adaptation for Pearson's Magazine, but they were still good.

On screen, the military gathered for an attack, and they were summarily turned to people shaped piles of ash.

The front door creaked with with a gust of wind, and the door bowed against it.

Frank spared his attention a moment at the door, and then back to his movie.

Let the storm come.

For decades his cabin was the life of the party. Swinging, sexy parties in a time of free love. That was then, of course. The remnants of that time were a yellow-orange shag carpet, a crushed velvet paisley patterned plush sofa, and a hell of a lot of Warhol knockoffs hanging from the various walls in his cabin.

Frank nestled into the plush couch, and surveyed it. The dolls, and puppets he collected over the years were his only real friends anymore.

He picked up a sock puppet decorated in a puppet-sized flower sundress with golden rod colored yarn for hair.

"Just you, and me, Sadie." Frank placed his hand in the sock puppet, and stared into its unseeing googly eyes.

He made the sock puppet nod.

The front door creaked again, bowed in with a gust of storm winds.

Frank found it harder to ignore.

He pulled Sadie the sock puppet free, and set it back down on the couch.

"Gods, I'm lonely."

The front door shattered, and for a moment, Frank had the absurd thought that it was only the wind. He stared wide eyed at the figure in the black duster, the long brimmed black hat and faceless cowl.

"Frankie Sullivan."

"Gods..."

"That's blasphemy. You, like the rest of your ilk were ordered to leave."

"Don't hurt me... it's just me here, me and my girlfriend."

Frank and the cowled hunter briefly glanced to the sock puppet on the couch.

"You're a sad man, Frankie." The hunter removed his long brimmed hat.

"I'm not practicing!" Frank pulled the collar of his shirt down to show his neckline. "I never accepted the black glass!"

"There are no coven permitted in Driftwood. Not even out here on the city limits." The hunter drew a long polished dagger.

"Oh, c'mon man. Don't kill me. Don't fucking kill me."

The hunter sighed, and removed his cowl, staring down at the fragments of shattered door."

"...who the hell are you?"

Cameron Dean glared up from the floor. "The last person you'll ever see."

✟ ☧ ✟

Frank sat on his plush couch, sock puppet laying limp across his lap. Cameron Dean sat on the cushion beside him. Frank stared at the dull shag carpet. "You want a beer?"

"What've you got?"

"I have some NGD in the fridge."

"NGD?"

"Nilar Genuine Draught. Indian company. Tastes almost exactly like the real stuff... they have a hint of curry."

"I'll pass." Cameron shifted uncomfortably. "This can go down two ways, Frankie Sullivan."

Frank continued staring at the floor. "Tell me, because I don't know what to do."

"Frankie Sullivan, you haven't got a clue. You can stay here and die tonight... or you can go. Leave Driftwood, never come back. Stay out of Bishop's Pridewater, too."

"There's no one living in Pridewater, man. I don't have anywhere else to go!"

"You could go to Westpart Collings. Place is abandoned."

"C'mon, man. Please. I'm not going to Westpart. I'd be alone."

"Well, there's always hell. Plenty of a population there." Cameron was on his feet before Frank could react, a gleam of polished steel flashing in the dim light.

Frank held his hand up to his cheek, a large bare patch in his beard shaved to the skin. "Why would you do that?"

"...because if you leave now, Frankie, I won't have to kill you. Forget packing up. Forget your home here. Leave and you can tell whoever you want you escaped, and that it was a close shave."

Frank made a face. "Can I take my girlfriend?"

"Find a real one."

✟ ☧ ✟

Frank stood down the dirt road, and watched the fire consume his home.

David stood behind Frank. "I'm sorry he gave you false hope. His orders weren't to let you go. Last rites?"

"No." Frank glanced over his shoulder. He could feel the hunter's breath on his neck. "What false hope? What hope at all? Everything I had was in my house."

David nodded. "Not everything."

Frank was gone before he hit the ground, collapsing off David's blade into a crumpled heap on the gravel road.

David stared down at the man, and caught a glint of red-black off his hand. He knelt next to Frank's body, and pulled a black glass faceted wedding band off his finger. He held the ring at eye level, and sighed. "Idiot."