Masky's Arc

Chapter 5 of 7

Tim's eyes closed. This time he did not fight it. Brian held him against the dry wall, one hand pressed to the cuts on his back. The waterfall crashed and threw cold spray across the stone. Tim's breathing slowed. His head rolled loose against Brian's chest. "Tim." Brian shook him. "Tim. Open your eyes." Nothing. Tim's face had gone gray. Blood had soaked the cloth strip and Brian's sleeve both. Brian pressed harder. The bleeding would not stop. Tim had lost too much, and now the darkness had him. Brian knew what came next. He had lived beside Masky for years. When Tim went under, the mask-mind woke. It did not care who held it. It would come cold and fast, and it would look at Brian the way it looked at prey. "No," Brian whispered. "Stay Tim. Stay you." He shook him again, harder. Tim's arm slid off his lap and hit the rock. Still nothing. Brian pressed two fingers to Tim's throat. The pulse fluttered, weak and quick. Fear pushed through the fog in Brian's own head. If Tim died, Brian died too. The pills that kept them both alive were gone, crushed and washed away in this same cave. There was no waking Tim with medicine. There was no waking him at all. Something shifted in the man on Brian's lap. Tim's fingers curled. His slack jaw tightened. The weak, gray face went smooth and blank. Then his eyes opened. They were not tired anymore. They were flat and clear and looked straight through Brian without warmth. Masky had come up. Brian froze. He knew this stare. He had run from it in the woods more than once. Slowly he lifted both hands off Tim's back and held them where the cold eyes could see them. Empty. Open. "It's me," Brian said. His voice cracked. "Brian. You know me." Masky did not answer. He never spoke behind the mask that wasn't there. He pushed Brian's arm aside and sat up on his own, spine straight, no sign of the wound that had drained Tim minutes before. The pain that dropped Tim meant nothing to the thing wearing his body now. Masky's flat gaze moved to the blood on the stone. Then to Brian's throat. Brian's back was to the wall. There was nowhere to run, and no Tim left to beg. "You kept him alive," Brian said, fast. "You need me. He needs me. Kill me and you both bleed out in this cave." Masky's head tilted. He studied Brian for a long moment. Then he reached out, gripped the front of Brian's hoodie, and hauled him up onto his feet. He did not strike. He pushed Brian toward the cave mouth, one hard shove between the shoulders, and stopped. He wanted Brian to move. To lead. To find a way to keep the body breathing. Brian was no longer the anchor. Now he was the tool. And Masky was in charge.