“God is cruel. Sometimes he makes you live.”

-Stephen King

10:19 p.m

20 minutes earlier

Unlike most hotels, Alexandria doubled as an office building for the first 49 stories, before the last 30 became available with rooms, and the final being the roof access. Usually, this would not have posed a problem as there were 6 elevators available. Two for staffs, three for guests, and one for goods. But the power to the city grid was unstable, and the elevator could not be made to work, no matter how hard Tim pressed the buttons or kicked furiously at the doors. With another group of looters closing in, he had no choice but to staunch his wound with a makeshift tourniquet and head up by foot.

His last breath up the 60 flights of stairs let out with a curse. Though the hotel rooms started 10 floors ago, the 60th were home to the junior-suites, which according to the log books kept at the reception, was the minimum suite required for the mini bar to be stocked with vodka.

“Fucking...sixty...storeys!” Even with multiple breaks between floors, he was almost sure he would pass out from exhaustion before bleeding to death, and recognized the miracle that he didn't do either one. “Three...fucking...hours!” he heaved, pushing open the fire doors and stepping into the hallway, which he was beyond grateful was still somewhat air-conditioned. Pigs would blush if they could see him sweat.

Most of the lights in the corridor remained operational, but some blinked in-and-out of the shadows. The elevators were still not operational, the maintenance light blinking on the LED screen served as a constant reminder.

Keeping pressure on his wound, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the master key he made at the reception and headed for the closest room. He swiped the card once but it did not read. The second try failed as well. That was when he realized his blood was smeared across the magnetic strip which he frantically wiped away with his shirt. On the third try, the door lit green, and he stumbled into the room. Despite the modern exterior, the inside of the suite was classically decorated. The furnitures were made of mahogany, and the floor was lined with actual wood.

Though sure he wasn't followed, Tim wanted to make his safety a guarantee. After locking and latching the room, with what strength he could muster, he pushed the cabinet to the door. The fact that it was empty made the job easier.

He was still amazed how he had managed to stay conscious, or how it was possible that he had not bled out yet. He wondered if it had anything to do with his newfound ability to manipulate energy and his proximity to the portal. Either way, he knew that if he did not treat or at least bandaged his wound better, he could still end up in trouble impossibly worst than what he was already in.

From the bathroom, he yanked the hand towel from its holder. After that, he headed to the mini-fridge and received the first good news throughout the whole day. A bottle of vodka, which was strangely priced a dollar cheaper than a bottle of water, sat cooled within. Without remorse, he downed the water first within seconds.

“Finally,” he huffed with a smile as he threw the empty bottle away and grabbed the vodka to compliment his towel.

With his makeshift first-aid kit, he headed for the dresser. The camcorder Howard Galloway passed him still rocked around his pocket.

Whatever you will do with it. The librarian said on their meeting.

It was then Tim realized that if he died, no one else in the world would know what had happened, or even have a chance of stopping it if he failed.

“I hate telling stories,” he muttered to himself as he realized he would need to recount his experience. Sighing, he reminded himself, “First thing's first...”

He sat in the dresser chair, feeling the pain in his shoulder that marked him as living. Scanning his beaten self in the mirror, he brought his hand to his bloodied shirt and tore away the soaked sleeve.

XXX

Sister stood on the higher beam of the construction building. Her outstretched cloth hung limply from the edge of her dress. She had just hung Timothy Kleve, killed the teen in the dream to save his life. Below her, standing within the labyrinth corridor of cardboard walls and plywood floors was the man in the straw hat. The Sawman. The Father. Deprived of his prey.

She said to him, “Tim will stop you.”

In a growl akin to that of beasts, it croaked, “I know what you are trying to do,” its voice was low, slow, and rough, like what a bulldozer would sound like if it had a vocal cords. “There will be no happy endings for you.”

“I don't expect one,” she replied. “Happy endings are for people who are alive. I am dead. Just like you. There won't be a happy ending for you either.”

The world dissolved around them, the bars and beams melting like molten metal, swirling and reshaping itself into a different shape, colour, and even material. What was once a metal beam she stood on turned into the large root of a mangrove tree. What used to be ground made of wood slowly flooded with muddied water. Trees sprouted out from the support pillars, and slowly, their surroundings transformed fully into a dampened, muddy swamp. Behind The Father, a giant whirlwind spun, the epicentre of the portal, stretching miles into the distance.

“You know our powers don't work on each other. You can't kill me,” Sister stepped off her perch, floating down to the level of the water, her dress shrinking up to her shin, her feet never touching the mud. Starting out seductive, she continued, “So be good boy. Get out of my way,” she hissed the last part, her eyes glowing white as tendrils of cloth extended from her dress.

The Father, legs knee deep in mud, stepped onto and above the liquid surface as easily and as if it was walking up a step of stair. Saw in hand, he stared down the girl, and without warning, charged in with blade raised. She readied herself for the impact. Her cloth shot outwards at it like spikes. The creature dodged them with ease, fading uncannily before each hit could connect.

From the side, in unceremonious shorts and sandals, feet splashing against the surface of the mud, a trail of grey powder streaming in his wake, the white haired teen came flying, his black hood flapping behind as he swung the steel pipe at The Father's face. The Sawman was caught off guard, catching the outsider's attack completely with the corner of its jaw. Supernaturally enhanced, the hit sent even The Father flying away into a tree.

Surprised at the arrival of her aid, Sister exclaimed, “You are-!” however, the name evaporated from the tip of her tongue and memory. “Brother.”

“I am,” Clay replied, panting heavily from his rushed attack. “This power though, gonna take some getting used to.”

Remembering, she added, “You should get to Tim! He knows your name. He can save you.”

“The kid? I already know his plan. Had a lot of time to figure things out here,” his pipe hung limply in his right hand as he stared at the tree The Father crashed into. The dust, yet to settle, blocked Clay's view. “Go find his dad. I'll buy you some time.”

“But what about you? You can't kill him!” she walked up to him in worry. “And without your name, you can't go back!”

“I know that. But I had a sister, didn't I? I know that much. And I know I loved her very much too,” the powder that trailed from him gathered around his left hand, slowly spinning and condensing themselves into his palm until they formed the shape, and eventually, the texture of another steel pipe. “She'll be here soon. I'm not leaving her alone.”

The Father's figure stood up from within the cloud. Slowly, menacingly, he stepped back out of the crevice made in the large tree and back onto the field of battle.

Sister looked at their opponent, and realizing she was not going to have another chance like that, simply said, “Thank you,” before rushing over towards the spinning whirlwind, gliding over the mud.

As she sped, the sound of clashing steel echoed out behind her. Even if The Brother had abilities, he was still new to them, and would not be able to hold back The Father for long. She had to hurry.

The nearer she got to the whirlwind, the more green spectres appeared. Blobs of energy, formed from the souls of those killed and held hostage by The Father. They floated around aimlessly, barely forming the outline of humans. Ghastly afterimages of the dead. Even at a hundred meters away from the whirlwind, there were no wind or breeze.

“Joshua!” she shouted, hoping that the spectre of the man had managed to retain its sanity. Time flowed differently in the dream world, and it could have easily been months since his spirit was ripped away from his body. “Joshua Kleve! Your son needs you!”

There was no reaction from any of the ghostly figures. Flustered, she reached her hand out to the nearest figure. A soft, white glow emitted from her palm and she placed her hand on the 'face' of the spectre. The translucent figure slowly took form, its head slowly returning to the looks it had in real life, albeit still see-through. The red headed teen that took the spectre's place was definitely not the man Tim had described to her. The bullet wound through the forehead was also a gruesome sight.

As she removed her touch from the figure, the face of Joseph Camein also melted back into green. For a moment, Sister thought of individually checking each spectre, hoping to get lucky. But the presence of literally millions of them surrounding the miles wide whirlwind meant such an action would require luck even beyond supernatural.

“Joseph,” she muttered desperately. Frustration settled in. And for the first time in a long, long afterlife, she felt hopeless. “JOSEPH!”

XXX

11:56 p.m

Present day

Turning off the camcorder, Tim finally finished his recount, all the way and up to the moment he sat down. The words flowed from him much easier than he thought they would, and sounded immeasurably more impossible than it had been in reality, which had already broken the line. The blood from his wound had slowed to a crawl and the towel-bandage seemed to be doing its job far beyond expectations. He looked to the digital clock next to the bed, midnight closing in and blinking at him in a ghostly green. The songs returned to plague his mind, even away from the dream world. He did not mind them, as he had long since figured out what they were.

The Mist will come, and darkness spreads.

He got to his feet, wobbled slightly, but held firm to his stance. Doing another check on his revolver, still fully loaded, he finally went to remove the cabinet against the door. However, the cabinet proved harder to remove than it was to place, requiring him to yank the furniture out. He soon found out why. Behind the blockade was an emergency fire axe, with its red head, lodged deep into the door, the bladed portion stuck in the cabinet. Apparently, someone had tried to raid the room while he was unconscious, but couldn't do much since it was barricaded and their breaching equipment was stuck.

Hold the line, the world will end.

Breathing a sigh of relief, but still wary, he readied his revolver in his one good arm, a practice he had gotten used to in the dream world. Knowing that inching his exit would give anyone on the other side more time to react, he flung the door open with all his might, quickly sweeping the corner down the sights of his gun from the cover of his room.

Descendant, he will walk alone.

The corridor was empty, but the lights were all turned on and most of the room towards the elevator had been broken into. Some with the violent destruction of their doors. The ones further down the hallway were intact, likely from the axe having gotten stuck and the looters giving up after. He contemplated taking the weapon, but could not convince himself that his arm would be able to wield it decently and left it in the door.

Watcher runs, as the verses clash...

Following a gut hunch, he headed towards the elevator instead of the stairs. Indeed, it was functional again, with the LED screen showing the last known floor being the first, meaning the looters that had taken it up had probably left the building. Feeling confident, he hit the button and called the elevator just at the song finished off in his mind.

“The world will end.”