“You know more about me than I’d expect. Is there a reason for this or are you just guessing?”
She glanced at her owl as if seeking an answer. The owl was placid as far as I could tell, but perhaps not so with her.
“At this point an explanation might prove objectionable to you. Trust me when I tell you that I mean you no harm. After all, it was you who sought me not me you.”
“I did not travel here seeking anyone or anything other then escape from what had become daily torture and endless deaths. I know I failed them, but it became life or death for me and I chose living.”
In answer she nodded and then held out her right hand extending her arm until her fingertips were six inches away from me.
On her palm was a thin needle of light. It stood straight up no more then eight inches tall. It seemed alive, squirming within, blinking an array of colors. Her fingers curled up as if to cup the light among them. The illumination began to grow in height and width. When it was too large for her palm, she released it and then she faded and disappeared. The light settled to the ground where she stood and then successfully replaced her.
Quickly it grew larger then me, wider than the arch nearby, and from inside of the light I saw my best friend striding in my direction. His blue eyes were fixed on me blonde hair in total disarray. His face showed determination and a seething rage that made me take a step backward.
He appeared to be real flesh and blood, as real as me. Three feet away, he raised his right hand and pointed a black Glock handgun at my heart. His forefinger was pressing the trigger. Over his shoulder, I saw our hometown littered with hundreds of corpses, haphazardly stacked as if there was no one left to remove them.
He glanced back and then stepped even closer to me. “This is your fault Stanton. Everyone is dead now or dying painfully, except the few like me who you saved with your magic antibodies.”
“My god,” I said softly. “Living like that would be worse than dying.”
“You’re right, Stanton.” He pressed the barrel of the Glock against my sternum, pressed hard. I ignored the unexpected sharp pain and eyes closed, attempted to prepare for the death I wasn’t ready for.
I recalled the unfinished true book in the green cabin.
Then the pressure was gone. I opened my eyes and saw that he’d turned the gun on himself barrel tight under his chin. Before I could react, he pulled the trigger. Deafening volume shades of red, and white, gray, too rose in a cloud of mist and obscured the early moonlight, and then slices of silver light cut paths through his history and lit my return to her.