by Chris Cooper
An overturned wooden bowl sat at the figure’s feet, splotched with the same liquid that lined the man’s arms. Oliver thought back to the pool on top of the atrium filled with the same swirling colors. The same stuff had fueled the lanterns in the square and healed the deep gash in his side.
The town is powered by blood.
A small metal box, about two inches long on each side, sat on the wooden table next to the body. Long metal slits interlaced with each other on the front, and a short lever protruded from the back.
“What is that?” Oliver asked.
“It draws blood to help with illness,” Mercy replied. “The box is filled with small metal blades that cut the skin. I’ve seen the doctor use it before. But why would someone do this to him?”
Oliver knelt next to the figure slumped in the chair. Upon closer inspection, he could see the man’s arms were covered in several sets of small slits, as if someone had taken the contraption and used it over and over again.
A soft groan rose from the man’s lips, startling Oliver.
“He’s still alive!” Oliver turned to face Gideon. “We have to get him out of here. Help me carry him.”
“I can’t let you do that,” Simon said from the shadows.
Gideon turned, lifting his weapon to strike, but Mercy was standing between him and Simon, Simon’s hand wrapped around her neck and a revolver pressed against her ribcage. The weapon wasn’t like Oliver’s—it looked as if Simon had brought it back from one of his trips across the briars.
“Wouldn’t do that,” Simon said.
Gideon held the blade in the air, as if contemplating whether he could bring the sword down on Simon’s head before the man could pull the trigger. After a few moments, Gideon loosened his grip, brought the sword down slowly, and rested it at his side.
As Simon stepped out of the shadows, his face no longer obscured by darkness, Oliver noticed the man’s lips were outlined with the same glowing liquid that ran from the man’s arms. A dribble of blood ran from the corner of his mouth and down his stubbled chin. Simon’s face was pulsating, as if small insects were scurrying underneath his skin, and the wrinkles lining his forehead had slowly started to disappear.
“You’re a monster,” Oliver said.
“Oh, he’ll be fine in a few minutes. Have to say I’m a bit embarrassed to be found in such a sorry state, but it had been a while, and I was starting to feel my age slowly creep back up on me. It doesn’t quite stop the aging process, but it sure does put a spring back in my step,” Simon replied, as if he’d been talking about a protein shake, and his cold nonchalance mixed with his bloodstained face made him appear truly, deeply evil.
Simon walked over to the chair, keeping the pistol aimed at Mercy. He gave the man in the chair a swift kick in the shin, which seemed to pull him out of his daze.
Oliver noticed the marks on his arm had healed over, leaving barely visible scars, lines of raised skin that were slightly lighter than the rest. His arm was covered with dozens of the tiny little marks, as though the tool had been used on him hundreds of times before.
He shook his head and slowly slid out of the chair and onto his feet. He clearly had been too delirious to notice the two others in the room, but as Simon pulled the man past them, he looked at them with innocent curiosity.
“Who are these people, Father?” he asked.
Father?
Oliver recalled Mercy’s story of the oxygen-starved baby and her brother who died in early childhood. Her brother hadn’t died after all.
“Wait by the staircase, you twit,” Simon snapped.
The man stumbled forward as he regained his footing and left the room.
“I assure you, you all are going to get what you want. I will leave. You can have your little town, and all that I’ll take is the boy,” Simon said in an eerie singsong voice. He spoke as if he still had some control over the situation although Oliver hoped the other rebels were closing in on the room above them.
As Oliver stepped toward the spiral staircase, Simon aimed the pistol at him. “You just stay put for now,” he said. “I’m sure your friends will find you soon enough.” He pulled Mercy toward the door, shifting his grip to her hair in order to keep hold of her through the cross-hatched window. The large wooden bolt slid into place on the other side of the door.
Where does Simon plan to take him? There’s nowhere to run.
A staccato gunshot echoed through the chamber, causing Oliver’s ears to ring. Mercy let out a surprised gasp and fell forward.
As Simon started to climb the staircase, metal steps clinking under his feet, he turned back. “Do you think I’d just walk away? Let you take everything I’ve worked for without so much as a whimper? How foolish you truly are.” He began to spit with anger. “I’d kill the two of you, too, if I didn’t think I’d need the goddamn bullets. But I’ll be back—for you, for Christchurch, and for Briarwood.”
Oliver was stunned, and by the time he pulled his weapon and aimed through the window, Simon had already ascended the staircase and was out of sight.
He rushed toward Mercy, who had a single gunshot wound on the left side of her chest.
“Help me roll her over,” Oliver told Gideon.
They turned Mercy onto her back, but she was limp and unresponsive.
“Come on, Mercy,” he said, slapping her lightly on the cheek. He tried to feel for a pulse but found none although he had no clue whether or not he was checking in the right spot.
Oliver’s heart raced as he tried to think of a way to save her. He looked over at the overturned wooden bowl, still stained with the iridescent blood.
“We’ve got to find some of his blood,” he said, scrambling over to grab the bowl. The vessel looked as if Simon had licked it clean, and he managed to gather only a small amount on his fingertips.
Without waiting for Gideon, Oliver struggled to turn Mercy over onto her stomach. He wiped the bowl again with his fingers then pressed them against her wound. He waited for something—any sign that Mercy was still alive—but her body remained still, and the glowing liquid did little more than fizzle around the edges of the bullet wound.
“It’s not working.” Oliver stumbled over his words as tears filled the corners of his eyes.
The statement seemed to send Gideon over the edge. He ran toward the cell door, slamming his shoulder into it. Although he had easily been able to break the doors into Simon’s bedroom, this one was much sturdier. He tried again, but it held firm, secured by the thick wooden plank on the other side. After punching the door hard in exasperation, he paced to the other side of the room and overturned one of the bookcases.
“Oliver?” A familiar voice echoed down the staircase and through the chamber.
“We’re down here!” he yelled.
Anna descended the staircase and peered through the small window in the cell door.
“Oh my God,” she said when she noticed Mercy’s crumpled form on the floor. She pulled the heavy wooden bar out of the way and pulled the door open.
Gideon walked toward the door and knelt next to Mercy.
“Take her, and I’ll find Simon,” Oliver said, placing a hand on Gideon’s shoulder.
Gideon lifted her up into a fireman’s carry, pushed past Anna, and climbed the staircase.
“Is she…?” Anna asked.
Oliver locked eyes with Anna but was unable to say the words. Instead, he marched past her and toward the staircase. “Where’s Simon?”
“I don’t know, but there are even more people here now. They’ve come to help.”
When they reached Simon’s bedroom, Oliver noticed a flipped table that had been sitting on top of an upturned corner of the large Persian rug. A small wooden hatch, just large enough for an average-sized man, was carved out of the floor where the rug had been.
“I have to go after him. Tell the others,” Oliver said, sliding his feet into the open hatch.
“Wait, why?” Anna asked.
“He has the coin.
If he crosses into Christchurch, we’ll never be able to go back. We’ll be trapped here.” Oliver’s head disappeared into the hatch.
“Well, at least wait for me,” she added as she prepared to climb.
The tunnel was a straight shot down to the ground. They carefully worked their way down the aged wooden planks, occasionally breaking off rotted pieces into the abyss below. The tunnel must have been there for centuries, neglected over the years of unquestioned rule.
Chilly night air whipped against Oliver’s back, and moonlight shone through an opening at the base of the tunnel. A wooden door had been framed with stone and made to look like part of the building’s foundation from the outside. He slid through the crack in the door and pulled it open for Anna.
Simon must have sneaked around the back of the building, where he would have been able to escape under cover of the woods.
“We have to go back to where we crossed in the car,” Oliver said. “If they're crossing, that’s where they’ll do it.” He grabbed Anna by the arm and tugged her toward the forest.
As they crossed the front of the building, they caught the attention of two townspeople standing guard next to the entryway.
“He’s headed toward the briars. Tell the others!” Oliver yelled.
When they reached the edge of the woods, a loud explosion came from behind. Oliver turned to see glass pouring from the lantern-shaped room on the side of the town hall, raining down like glitter in the moonlight. A pale form emerged from the shattered window, torn nightgown billowing in the breeze.
“She’s out. Somehow, she’s gotten out,” he wheezed.
“Better run faster, then,” Anna panted.
Lightning crisscrossed the whirling storm clouds overhead as Oliver and Anna arrived at the edge of the briars. Oliver caught a glimpse of Simon and the boy midpatch, thorns shifting around their feet.
“There’s no way we’re going to catch them,” Oliver said.
“The cruiser,” Anna replied. “Maybe we can catch up before they cross.”
Oliver looked over at the police cruiser they’d crossed in earlier that day. “Come on,” he said, but Anna was already halfway to the passenger side of the car.
The key jingled in the ignition as Oliver slammed the door. At first, the engine refused to turn, but with a few persistent twists of the key, it roared to life.
He turned the car around, and the headlights illuminated the briars. Simon and the boy had nearly cleared the patch. Another figure was perched at the edge of the woods, though. The Witch sat facing the briars, completely ignoring Oliver and Anna behind her. Her broken chains hung limp at her sides.
“Without the key, she’s got no chance,” Oliver said. The Witch seemed to know that too.
“What are you waiting for? Drive!” Anna said.
“There’s a wall, some sort of barrier in the middle. Even if we can make it through the briars, we won't be able to clear the wall. It’s too late.”
“No, we have to try!” Anna grabbed for the wheel.
“Just hold on a minute. Look,” Oliver said, pointing toward the patch.
Once Simon made it safely to the field, he turned back toward Briarwood. As he did, the Witch’s head twitched to one side, and she rose to her feet. With hobbled steps, she entered the patch. The briars were quick to act, climbing her legs and working their way upward. At first, she pulled herself free, slowly making progress across the pit of vines. But as she stumbled deeper and deeper into the patch, the vines became more vicious and pulled her toward the ground. Once she fell to her knees, she was quickly consumed by a writhing sea of green.
Simon seemed to hesitate at first as if he were debating whether or not to turn back and help. Oliver was unsure if he paused because the Witch was his daughter or because he would lose a powerful weapon if he let the patch consumer her. Eventually, he turned and trudged across the field, leaving her behind.
Oliver heard a rustling in the woods behind him as a group of rebels approached, eager for their chance to bring the brutal leader to his knees. They stood for a moment, surveying the field ahead, but their collective expression shifted from one of disappointment to slack-jawed amazement. When Oliver turned to see what had caught their attention, he was greeted by a sea of blooming roses. As the vines tore into the Witch, her blood seemed to bring them to life. But with the blooms came something else. The pulse was small at first, a subtle shift in the vines where the Witch had disappeared. The patch seemed to have developed a heartbeat, but the motion grew more prominent, throbbing and swelling where the roses bloomed most brilliantly.
A blast came next, an explosion of snapped thorns and brambles. Oliver and Anna both instinctively shielded their eyes although they were protected by the car’s windshield, which deflected the bits of debris flying toward them. The sudden explosion seemed to grab Simon’s attention too, and he stopped and turned midway through the field.
The Witch lay in the center of a circle of bare earth with the vines around it blown backward and resembling a slipshod crown of thorns. She slowly pushed herself up to her hands and knees. Her body had been ripped and torn by thorns, and laces of blood appeared on her already-tattered clothing. She rose back onto her knees, not braced by her hands but rather by some invisible force that seemed to lift her toward the sky, just as she had lifted her victims. She flung her head back, black tangles of hair hanging freely, and her body rose upward until her feet no longer touched the ground.
The Witch glided through the air, her limbs positioned as if she were being crucified, arms outward and toes pointed toward the earth. The devastation seemed to follow her from below, ripping aside the branches that grasped at her feet, leaving a cleared trail in her wake.
When she reached the edge of the patch, she stopped as though sensing the invisible barrier. Simon stood and watched, the spectacle seemingly amusing to him. He was safely on the other side, and no amount of brute force could penetrate the wall. At least, that’s what Oliver had assumed.
For a moment, the Witch hovered there, motionless except for the slight sway of her body in the wind. Occasionally, a vine or two would reach up toward her feet, but most had retreated, as if some sort of survival instinct was engrained in them. She stared across the field, and Oliver could see her brother, on the other side, staring back. He lifted an arm toward the patch, toward the Witch, who levitated on the other side, and she raised hers back. For a moment, Oliver held his breath, not sure what would happen next and completely forgetting about the revolutionaries who stood at the edge of the patch next to him. He wondered if the son had ever been permitted to leave his cell, to see his sister. Did she even know he was still alive?
Simon jerked him around, pulling him away from the patch and toward the hill and Izzy’s home. He was leaving the Witch behind. This seemed to upset her, and she let out a wail so loud that Oliver and Anna could hear it through the closed windows. She lifted her arms above her head, wrists casually crossing as if she were stretching. The loose debris from the patch below her feet began to float, just as the furniture in Izzy’s house had during the attack the other night. Oliver swore he felt lighter, as though she were lifting the car too. When she brought her arms down, nothing happened at first. For a brief moment, the loose twigs and broken vines hung in the air, and then everything came crashing to the ground with a gust of violent wind. The trees above Oliver shook, sending a shower of leaves down upon the group. He looked up at the sky, and even the clouds appeared to have been pulled toward the Witch as a puffy stalactite formed in the center of the ominous storm.
Lightning cracked through the sky, striking the ground in front of the Witch. Oliver felt static in the air, and the sudden bolt caused the hair on his arms to stand on end. Instead of instantly dissipating, the bright plasma branches left a red-hot scar on the invisible wall separating Briarwood from the edges of Christchurch. He knew the barrier had been there, but this was the first time he was actually able to see it, outlined by the lightning strike.
As the Witch hovered toward Simon, the glowing scar on the dome grew. The lightning pattern branched off as if the barrier had been made of glass and was slowly starting to crack.
Bits of the barrier broke away and came down in a shimmering waterfall. As the pieces fell, erasing the separation between the two worlds, Izzy’s house appeared in the distance, no longer obscured by the magic barrier. The dome didn’t shatter completely—rather, the blast left a jagged portal in its side just large enough for a police cruiser.
“Buckle up,” Oliver said, pulling his seatbelt over his shoulder. He shifted the car into drive and stepped on the gas. At first, the wheels spun in the soft mud, but the tires eventually gripped the earth and propelled the car forward.
The Witch had left a path behind, but the vines were spreading and covering the damaged area. He could hear the snapping of vines underneath the wheels, and eventually, the car began to struggle as the briars came for it.
Oliver looked up at the portal, their only hope of ever escaping Briarwood, and floored it. He didn’t look back, didn’t have time to say goodbye to those who had saved him—but if he ever had the chance, he would return the favor. The sharp edges of the portal began to smooth over, filling in the red cracks until they were transparent once again. The top of the car scraped against the jagged edges of the portal, but the cruiser managed to clear it, making it to the edge of the forest beyond the patch. By the time he looked in the rearview mirror, all that remained of the doorway were fading red skeletal outlines in the invisible wall. The car slid to a halt as he considered his next course of action.
Oliver wasn’t sure what the Witch would do if she caught up with Simon or her brother, but he was now close enough to see the damage the thorns had done to her body. Deep gashes spiraled down her arms and legs, filled with blood and surrounded by puffy pink skin. The Witch seemed to pay the car no mind, though, and continued to float up the base of the hill toward Izzy’s, picking up speed as she tried to catch up with Simon and the boy, who were now specks on the hill.
