Terminus: A Novella of the Apocalypse by Stephen Donald Huff Page B

will they?  No.  It’s too… Terminal.  Ha ha ha.  That’s a good one.  Terminal.  So now I need a new name.  I’ve been picking through a short list.  What do you think of ‘The Clan of the Not-So-Immaculate but Sometimes-Necessary Kidnapping’?  No?  Yeah, me neither.  It’s too long.  A good name is short.  To the point.”
    Now I step forward threateningly.  I growl, “If you don’t come to the point soon, I’m going to make a point of my own by breaking your neck and having The Girl run that big blade of hers through all the little holes in your head, one at a time!”
    The Guide giggles.  “Right!  Right!  Right!  To work!  To work!  And no time for play!  And the point is,” he chimes, again imitating a gameshow host about to reveal the hidden prize behind curtain number one, “you have a hot date with a very important lady!  We can be there before nightfall, you know, and I am so glad you decided to come in from the cold when you did!  It’s been a long and difficult chase, but now it’s over and all is well!  So let’s get going!”
    He has apparently taken for granted my desire to entertain him.  Gritting my teeth, I refuse to admit my curiosity.  Instead, I say, “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
    “Ah, don’t do that, Scientist!  Don’t do that!  Not that!  Don’t play hard to get!  I might be a crazy god, but I’m not a stupid one.  Or blind!  I see a spark of interest in your eyes!  Who wouldn’t be interested?  Huh?  Who?  Even I must admit my interest in putting the world back together again.  I mean, it’s fun running The Clan and all, but not nearly as much fun as I thought it would be.  There’s no challenge in it, not really.  Most of the people we strangle already have a death wish.  It’s like we’re doing them a favor, Scientist!  Sometimes I get to feeling all warm and snuggly like a goody-two-shoe, or something.  Like I’m some kind of saint, bringing peace to the tortured mind or giving closure to the unresolved sin!  I mean, YUCK!  Right?  That’s no good!”
    The Guide sips and smokes and pouts, his expression suddenly crestfallen.  Like a petulant child, he whines, “I want the old world back.  I know it’s probably hard to believe, but I miss the cops-and-robbers bit.  You have no idea how many people we’ve choked-out, Scientist.  No idea.  In the old world, I’d be public enemy number one!  I’d be the subject of endless documentaries and newscasts.  I’d be the world’s most sought-after anti-celebrity!  Wouldn’t I?  You bet I would!  But here?  Today?  In this place?  Nothing!  Hell, most folks don’t even run from us!  They just sit and wait while we slip the cord around their neck and pull!  It got to be a fulltime job!  Imagine that, will you?  Me!  Working for a living!  There’s something basically wrong with that!”
    Despite my better resolve, my grin is lopsided and rueful, “You’re telling me you want to get the world working so you can prey on it again?”  For the first time, I see The Girl’s face change.  She is angry.
    “Exactly!  Now you get the picture, Scientist!  Somehow, I knew you would understand!  Like I said.  Smart.  Very smart.”
    Before I can stop her, The Girl lashes out with the knife.  Though distracted, The Guide is fast, too, in his own way.  Like I said, Terminus had a way of winnowing out the weaklings.  Only the strong survived.
    Thus, he manages to retract his left hand before she can chop it off.  Instead, he loses only the tip of his pinky.  Slinging the hand painfully, blood flies.  I intervene, pushing her back, though gingerly to avoid her ire, myself.
    Hissing, The Guide fetches a kerchief from the breast pocket of his silk suit to staunch the flow.  It immediate floods crimson.  Digits bleed that way, I learned during Terminus.  Fast and hard but briefly.
    The Guide chortles in a self-deprecating manner.  “The Protégé