The Newton Prophecies

Chapter 38

Chapter 38

The steps leading down to Clinton's apartment were flooded with sweltering sunlight. The heavy, sticky stench hovering in the space was putrid. It reminded DiBianco of festering meat.
         Sweat poured from DiBianco's forehead. He struggled to breathe. He grew faint. Something about the space haunted him. Shivers swept his spine. He was cold.

         "Where's your mother?"
         "She's fine, dad. Come on, you've gotta help."
         Michael fought to free his father from the snowy grave, but all his father seemed to care about was his wife. "Where's your mother?" he'd ask, over and over. Michael didn't want to lose his father like he knew he had his mother, so his response was simple, "She's fine. Help me, please. You've gotta help me dig."
         ...and dig they did.
         Finally, two hours after finding his father, Michael pulled him out of the crusty crater, and burst into tears. "She's dead. I'm so sorry!"
         His father laid quietly for a long time. Tears welled in his shaky eyes. Michael could plainly see that his mind had drifted to another place. He prayed he'd come back.
         Forcing himself to sit, his father burst into sobs; he took his son into his arms and, though suffering from many obvious injuries, rose to his feet and walked his son down the mountainside. That was the last memory he would have of his living father. Exposure took him only moments later...

         Then it was dark--pitch black. A desk, rich lacquered wood, upon it rested a small black box, a stack of wrinkled papers; the scant light in the room came from a tiny amber flame, a candle perhaps--no, a lamp, oil. Then the box disappeared; the stack of papers rained down from the ceiling; a strange burning on his cheek; next to the flame, now appearing to be dying out, it's light fading quickly. There was a shimmering metal object, impossible to make out--

         "It's 2:00," Clinton said, snapping DiBianco from his vision.
         Clinton was certain. He pointed at the steps as he walked toward the door, the black duffle bag still in his hand. Wrought iron bars covered the windows flanking the door--one was broken.
         He was pointing at the shadow. It hovered over the bottom step. There was a number drawn in red paint; a big red 2. Two steps higher was a 3, two higher, a 4, and so on.
         "Someone actually took the time to do this?"
         "Pretty cool, hay?"
         "And what's wrong with a watch?"
         "They turn my skin green."
         "You did this?" DiBianco shook his head.
         Clinton shrugged. "I was bored."
         "I guess so." DiBianco paused. "Get one with a leather strap."
         "Too sweaty."
         "Did you mark the sidewalks too? How about your living room? Lines running down the wall?"
         "I have a clock, wise-ass."
         Clinton reached in through the broken window and unlocked the door.
         "You do live here ... right?"
         "There's a key stuck in the lock. Everyone has to reach around."
         DiBianco rubbed the tip of his nose and shook his head. How can anyone live this way?
         Following Clinton through a long hallway, the stench of cat litter and trash assaulted his senses. There was a copy of The Newton Theories--one of his largest books--among a pile of crap strewn about in the depths of the hall. That's where DiBianco noticed the door. It was a dilapidated door held closed with a 2x4 nailed at each end. He didn't know then, but it would soon be their salvation.
         Several feet before that door was the door to Clinton's apartment. Clinton stopped and fumbled something shiny in his hands.
         "Ah, a key," DiBianco said with a chuckle.
         Clinton said nothing. He inserted the key and turned. It took effort. The bolt slid open with a clang. Clinton shouldered the door open and stepped aside. "Welcome to my pad."

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