Johnny West's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Johnny's boots hit the road hard. Behind him, the void rolled out of the house and onto the asphalt. It was bigger now, wider than the doorway should have allowed. He gripped the black rubber fist clipped to his belt, the old talisman that had always pointed him forward. Tonight it felt dead in his hand. No pull. No promise. Just weight. He ran. The void hissed at his heels, and where it passed, the world bent. A gaunt figure crouched on the shoulder ahead, hollow-eyed, twitching, half-swallowed already. The man's fingers were sunk into the gravel like roots. Johnny did not stop. He could not help what the void had touched. He could only outrun what it still wanted. Then he saw it. A small, square shelter squatting under a buzzing light. Blue and yellow walls. A sturdy metal door. A gas station restroom, plain and ugly and standing. He remembered something from the dead craftsman's notes — thresholds older than gods held. He did not know if this counted. He ran anyway. The void reached. His shoulder slammed the door. It swung. He fell inside and kicked it shut. The humming stopped at the threshold. Johnny lay on the cold tile, chest heaving, the lead case still strapped to his back. Outside, the void pressed against the door and could not enter. Inside, the rubber fist on his belt had cracked clean down the middle. Whatever had been guiding him was gone. He was sheltered. He was also lost.