Genesis. Volume 2

December 31, 1986. Brookfield. Headquarters, kitchen. 11 p.m. No one had agreed to celebrate New Year's Eve. Arthur sat in his room, holding the iron coin, staring at the wall. Outside, it was dark; the snow had stopped, the wind had died down. The town was still—not from fear, from exhaustion. December. The end of the year. Even the streetlights seemed to burn more dimly than usual. He didn't notice when eleven o'clock struck. He wouldn't have noticed at all if there hadn't been a knock at the door—quiet, with knuckles, twice. "Arthur," Lisa said. "Come to the kitchen." "Why?" "Everyone's there." He didn't ask who "everyone" was. He stood, tucked the coin into his pocket, and walked out into the hallway. The kitchen light was on. Not the overhead light—a dim lamp on the table, brought in from the living room, old, with an orange shade covered in stains. It smelled of tea, waffles, and something else—burnt paper, as if someone had tried to light the stove and miscalculated. Or just singed a napkin. Lisa sat on a stool, clutching her sketchbook with her left hand. Her right—in its cast—rested on her knees, fingers trembling slightly from the cold. On the table in front of her—a pack of chocolate waffles in a yellow wrapper. She'd opened them an hour ago, but no one had taken any. The wrapper was crumpled. Max put the kettle on. Old, enameled, with a chipped spout and a blackened bottom. The kettle whistled, and he didn't turn it off—he just stood beside it, waiting for the water to cool. "Turn it off," Jenny said. She sat on the windowsill, legs tucked under her, wrapped in someone else's sweater—too big, gray, with stretched sleeves. Her palms were wrapped in fresh bandages, and a pink stain was seeping through on the right one. "It's boiling," Max replied. "Tea needs boiling water. Then you turn it off." "I'll turn it off." "When?" "When it stops boiling." Jenny didn't argue. She just sighed and adjusted her sweater. Liam brought a candle. One. He set it on the table and lit it with a match. The flame trembled, casting shadows on the ceiling—long, brittle, swaying with every movement of air. He sat on a chair by the door—so he could see the exit. "Where did you get that?" Emma asked. She sat in the corner, wrapped in a blanket up to her chin, her left shoulder in a sling. The blanket smelled of mothballs. "I found it in the basement." "There were candles in the basement?" "There was one." "Why didn't you take more?" "I didn't find any." Emma wanted to say something else. She didn't. She just adjusted the blanket. Sasha sat at the edge, by the wall. From there, she could see the entrance, the window, and the stairs to the second floor. She wasn't drinking tea or eating waffles. She just sat, gripping the gold coin, her thumb slowly stroking its edge. "Are you going to have one?" Max asked, nodding at the waffles. "Don't want any." "They're chocolate." "I can see." "Tasty." "Eat them yourself." Max took one. Bit into it, chewed. He couldn't taste it. The waffle was dry and crumbly. Jack stood by the wall. Not leaning against it—just standing, arms at his sides. He stared at the candle flame. His face, in the dim light, looked even grayer than during the day. The whites of his eyes were transparent, almost blue, like a newborn's. He didn't blink. "Jack, sit down," Lisa said. "I don't need to sit." "You'll get tired." "I don't get tired." She didn't argue. She just placed a pillow on the chair beside her—in case he changed his mind. Arthur came into the kitchen last. He sat on an empty chair, picked up a mug—empty, because the kettle was still boiling. "Turn it off already," Jenny said. Max turned it off. He brewed the tea—in a large pot, for everyone. He poured it into mugs. The tea was black, strong, with a smoky aftertaste—over-steeped by two minutes, but no one complained. "Why the candle?" Arthur asked. "For light," Liam replied. "There's a lamp." "The lamp is for work. The candle is for the holiday." "What holiday?" "New Year's." Arthur looked at the wall clock. Eleven twenty. "Forty minutes left," he said. "Then we'll make it." "Make what?" "Sit in silence." No one answered. The room was warm. The boiler in the basement was running, coal hissing, pipes humming. Outside—darkness, only a few streetlights still burning. Lisa took a waffle, bit into it. Chewed. "Good," she said. "It's what we have," Max replied. "Did you buy them?" "Who else?" "I don't know. Maybe Jenny." "I don't buy waffles," Jenny said. "I buy bandages." "That's important too." "More important." She took a sip of tea. Blood was seeping through the bandages—fresh, because the stitches had split when she got up from the windowsill. "Rewrap it," Emma said. "Later." "Not later. Now." Jenny set down her mug. She unwrapped the bandage from her right palm. The skin beneath was red, with dark patches—old scars that wouldn't heal, new ones appearing. Liam handed her the first-aid kit—from under the table, where it always was. Jenny took the bandage and wrapped her palm with her left hand. Slowly, clumsily. "Need help?" Lisa asked. "I've got it." She did. She tightened the knot with her teeth. "Done." "Good job," Max said. "Not good job. Just able." She picked up her mug. The tea had gone cold. Outside, someone shouted. Far away, beyond the houses. Then—laughter. Children's, bright. "Neighbors," Emma said. "They have a tree in their yard." "A tree?" Jack asked. "Artificial. With lights." "Pretty?" "Average." He nodded. He didn't understand. Liam stepped out for a minute—to the bathroom or for something else. He came back and sat down. "Didn't get lost?" Emma asked. "In the house? No." "It's dark in the hallway." "I'm used to it." She wanted to ask "used to what?" but didn't. The clock showed ten to twelve. "Almost," Lisa said. "Almost what?" Max asked. "New Year's." "It happens every year." "But this one is different." "Different how?" "I don't know. I just feel it." She clenched her left hand into a fist. Opened it. "Emma, are you going to make a wish?" "What kind?" "I don't know. You make wishes when the chimes strike." "We don't have chimes." "Then when the candle burns out." "It won't burn out until morning." "Then wish now." Emma paused. "Fine. I'll wish." "Out loud?" "You can't say it out loud. It won't come true." "Trust me," Jenny said, "what we do doesn't depend on whether it's out loud or not." "Then I've already wished." "What?" "Not telling." Jenny smiled. The first time that evening. Outside, the children shouted again. Closer now—in the neighbor's yard. Someone set off a firework—cheap, with a short hiss. A few colored balls rose above the rooftops, burst with a dull pop. At 11:58. Everyone looked out the window. "Beautiful," Lisa said. "Cheap," Max replied. "But beautiful." Green, red, blue. Sparks on the snow. The children shouted. Someone clapped. "Happy New Year," Liam said. To no one in particular. Just into the space. "Happy New Year," Arthur replied. At midnight, no one said anything. Not because there was nothing to say—everything that could be said had been said many times, and repeating it was pointless. Thank yous had been said. Sorrys had been forgiven. Be carefuls had been heard. The new year was stepped over in silence. The way you cross a threshold in a dark room—carefully, because you don't know what's underfoot. The candle burned halfway down. "Anyone want one?" Lisa asked, nodding at the waffles. "Go ahead," Max said. He took one and bit into it. "Good?" "No." "Then why are you eating it?" "Because it's New Year's." Jenny took a waffle. Emma did too. Arthur didn't. "What's wrong?" Lisa asked. "Don't feel like it." "Eat." He took one. Put it on the saucer. Didn't bite. At one in the morning, everyone dispersed. Liam to his room, where Emma waited, awake until he came. Max to his room, where his knife waited on the nightstand. Jenny to hers, where she gripped the silver coin until she fell asleep. Sasha left last. She stopped in the doorway and looked at Arthur. "Goodnight." "Goodnight." She left. Arthur was alone. He went up to his room. Sat on the windowsill—narrow, cold, frost patterns on the glass. He turned on the desk lamp—small, with a green shade, brought from the living room. He took out the iron coin. The symbol—the same one. He'd seen it in Kane's notes, on the altar, on the wall behind the steel door. Elias had said: a seal. Part of a system. Arthur didn't know what that meant. But he felt it was important. He looked at the coin in the lamplight. The metal gleamed—dully, without reflections. "What are you?" he asked aloud. The coin didn't answer. He remembered—only today, sitting on the windowsill—the wall behind the steel door. Brick, gray, covered in dust. And on it—that symbol. Drawn with a finger. Small, careless, as if drawn not for others but so the drawer wouldn't forget. Or so others would remember. Kane had known this symbol. Elias had known it. Now Arthur knew it. But what did it mean? He put the coin back in his pocket. Lay down on the bed without undressing. Outside, it was night. The first night of the new year. He closed his eyes. Behind his lids—the symbol. Lines pulsing, like the threads on his wrist. Or like a heartbeat. He fell asleep toward dawn. And he dreamed of his father. Without a face. But with a voice. "Get up," his father said. "It's already morning." Arthur woke. The clock showed six in the morning. He sat up, rubbed his face. Outside, it was gray—not dawn, pre-dawn murk, when you can't tell if it'll be sunny or overcast. He stood. Pulled on his jacket, his sneakers. Went out into the yard. Snow crunched underfoot—crust, a hard layer that held his weight. The tracks were the first. No one else had come out. He walked across the yard, to the far edge, by the half-rotted wooden fence. It was always empty there—only old boards, nettles in summer, snowdrifts in winter. And—a corner. Yellow, thick, sticking out from under the snow. Arthur walked closer. Bent down. It was a ticket. A circus ticket. The paper felt like leather—dense, embossed. The print was old, worn, with the symbol of a circus tent. He pulled it out of the snow. Slowly—because the ticket was frozen into the crust, and the edges might tear. On the back—words. Not printed. Scratched. With a sharp object, pressed into the cardboard. "The Sleeper calls." Arthur stood in the frosty dawn, holding the ticket with both hands. His fingers were numb, but he didn't feel it. Snow crunched underfoot. Somewhere beyond the fence, a crow coughed. He looked up. On the hill, above the town, the silhouette of the Genesis mansion stood black against the sky. No lights burned in the windows. But Arthur knew—someone was there. Jack. Or what remained of him. He tucked the ticket into his jacket's inner pocket. The same one where the iron coin lay. He turned and walked back to the house. Snow crunched underfoot. The tracks were the first—his. And no one else's. He went inside. Took off his jacket, hung it on the hook. The kitchen light was already on—Lisa sat at the table, drinking tea. Her left hand gripped the mug, her right—in its cast—lay on the table. "What are you doing up so early?" she asked. "Couldn't sleep." "Did you see something?" "A ticket." "What ticket?" He laid it on the table. Lisa took it with her left hand, held it up to the light. "Circus," she said. "Old. Like the ones we found." "Look at the back." She turned it over. Read it. "The Sleeper calls." "Yes." "Where did it come from?" "In the snow. By the fence." "You were the first one out?" "The first." "Then someone left it before you. While we were sleeping." "Or it came out on its own." Lisa put the ticket on the table. "What do you think?" "I think the war is just beginning." "We knew that." "We knew. But now he's said it out loud." She took a sip of tea. "What are we going to do?" "Show the others." "And then?" "Then we'll decide." Lisa nodded. Arthur sat across from her. He picked up a mug, poured tea from the pot. The tea was strong, bitter—Lisa had brewed it; she liked it that way. "Happy New Year," he said. "Happy New Year." They sat in the kitchen, drinking tea, and outside, the sun was rising—pale, cold, but alive. Somewhere on the hill, in the Genesis mansion, Jack stood at the window and looked out at the town. He didn't blink. He didn't breathe. He just looked. He knew they were awake. And that the ticket was no longer in the snow—it was in Arthur's hands. Where it belonged. The Sleeper was calling. And they would answer. Not today. But soon.