The Transition of Johnny Swift by Kerry J Donovan

Author:Kerry J Donovan [Donovan, Kerry J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Human vertex Publications
Published: 2014-07-24T22:00:00+00:00

The searing migraine bursts into flame. I clutch at my forehead but it does no good. A whirl of grey mist whips me from the bed, but there’s no sense of movement. Hot and cold humidity, thick enough to swim through, pushes at my back. Sounds, a bleep-bleep machine, nurses calling a ‘code red’ for a patient in another ward. Traffic noise fades beneath me.

Cool air. Quiet.

Dark, then light, and then dark again.

Snap.

#

A vast library stretches out in front, behind, and above. Thousands upon thousands of books stuffed into shelves that carry on forever. The place is enormous, and lit by occasional low-wattage light bulbs that do nothing but illuminate the small circle of the tired parquet floor directly beneath them. Dust particles float in the air—the dandruff of knowledge.

I sneeze, trying to clear my nose of the musty smell of old books. My ribs don’t hurt.

“Paula?”

The sound is deadened, absorbed by the leather-bound volumes. No echo. No response. I try again, louder.

Still nothing.

I look down to find I’m standing on legs that hold my weight. There is no discomfort, but the viewpoint is wrong, I’m shorter. Not by much, and it could be the height of the library throwing off my perspective. The deep breath I take doesn’t hurt. My hands are wrong too. They have the correct number of fingers, each one complete, but someone’s bitten the nails. I’ve never bitten my nails, ever.

There’s something else too. Depth perception. The books slide away into the distance and I can judge how far away they are. With right eye closed, I can still see. No blurring, and the headache’s gone. How?

A door squeaks open in a dark alcove to my right. Spilling light into the library.

Three people enter. A Shadow-man, a Shadow-woman, and a Shadow-girl. This one’s not the same one that attacked Paula, she’s too tall. Closer in height to my Jenny than the one I held captive behind the fibre net.

The three stand before me in a tight arc. Only they’re not shadows anymore when they step into a circle of light. They are living, breathing people with faces, fingers and clothes, and they look vaguely familiar, but that’s impossible.

The man, in his late sixties or early seventies, wears a business suit, clean but heavily worn, frayed at the cuffs, and in need of a press. The women are in faded white lab coats. The older wears a blue skirt, the younger is in skin-tight jeans. Both wear surgeon’s rubber clogs.

The man, sallow skin and sunken cheeks, takes a shambling pace forward. His black shoes are scuffed and heavily creased. There’s relief and the shade of a smile in his washed out blue eyes. He pushes out a hand for me to take. I refuse.

“Johnny, my boy,” he says with the rasping voice of a heavy smoker. “It is about time. We thought you would never get here.”

There’s that fucking ‘Johnny’ thing again.

This is too much. My heart’s about to burst. The heavy air is thick with dust and something else I can’t place—something metallic.

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