Something Eternal

by Joel T. McGrath

  The thug cocked his arm back over his shoulder. The blonde woman and the handsome man leaned away. Their eyes widened. Their faces struck a stony, fearful arrested look. Their hands up, they called out. “No! Please!” The blonde woman closed her eyes and covered her handsome man. The handsome man tried to cover her instead, and each looked up, puzzled by the thug’s disappearance. Without a sound, the grizzled thug was nowhere to be seen. The two stood tall and gazed up and down the deserted street, but like a ghost, the grizzled thug was gone.

  The man and the woman let out a sigh of relief, waving into the dark, thanking whoever had saved them from certain tragedy. The couple readied to go back the way they had come, but suddenly the handsome man was snatched from the street into the dark as if on a string. The blonde woman cried a half shout, before she was ripped away into the night as well.

  Three monsters stood before them at the end of a sinister, crowded alley. The handsome man and the blonde woman bunched together, shivering in the wide shadows of three beasts approaching, blocking out any background streetlight as they did.

  “Wha…what do you want? Money? He…that other guy…” The handsome man pointed out the alley. “He took it all.”

  “Please leave us alone,” the blonde woman whimpered, her face buried in her mate’s shoulder.

  “Now we eat,” one Dweller said.

  Another Dweller chopped its arms down with its talons, barring any other Dweller from approaching the couple. “No! This is M’s first. I will show how it is done.”

  With clasped and unclasped talons, the other Dweller lamented with a quiet rage. “What about me, Killian?”

  “Go devour the man we pulled away from the two of them.”

  The Dweller looked over its shoulder. “He’s already dead. Besides, he reeks of strong drink.”

  Killian became agitated. “Well go join Nytmar and his bunch the next town over!” He growled.

  The other Dweller narrowed an eye. “What of you two?”

  Killian, his voice a dry gully of well-kept intentions, replied, “We’ll finish up here, and then M and I will meet up with you shortly. Now go hunt with Nytmar, and then we shall find each other at the fixed location for the aperture back to Malum before daybreak.”

  The other Dweller’s black saucers shifted asquint back and forth from Killian to M. “Fine!” It reluctantly left Killian and M’s company.

  The couple was detained in their own terror. They were too afraid to call out. Their muscles stiffened, they quivered together against a short, back alley wall. They had neither fight nor flight left in them, but only a deathly freeze, which suffocated the handsome man and the blonde, slender woman in listless shock instead.

  “Go on now.” Killian pushed M toward the couple.

  “I—I can’t.” M turned back.

  Killian held M by the shoulders. “All of the pain will go away if you do this. All of your doubts, all of your weakness, all of the dead you feel inside, will become alive again.”

  M sighed a reviled yet impelled breath. “You mean it?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I do this, all of the pain will go away?”

  “Forever.” Killian finished M’s thought.

  “But how do I…”

  Killian reassured. “Deaden your mind. Make yourself numb.”

  Hesitant with mixed feelings, M turned toward the human couple. M’s body wasting away from hunger, its eyes now full of boggy desire, found a new perspective. M stared at the blonde female, tilting its head before diving, fangs open, talons sprung.

  M grabbed the blonde woman, opening her mouth and forcing in a waxy substance secreted from its own mouth. Killian joined after M made the first move.

  A quick set of bloodcurdling screams rang and then died out in the silence of the dark. And whatever follows death emerged from the alley. Smiling, she was now a slender, pretty, blonde woman, and he, a handsome, brown-eyed man. They walked from the dark backstreet with hands entangled. She had a spattered, fresh red spot on the tip of her white high heels. Yet nothing else was out of sorts. The two looked perfect in youthful afterglow. They beamed with health, and bloomed as only young lovers could—fruitful in the prime years of early life.

  She leaned in for a kiss. He pulled back in surprise, but indulged himself, accepting her offer. Their two lips collided. They embraced. M licked Killian’s lips. He kissed her neck. Killian pulled her smooth hips closer, pressing his chest up against hers. They had bliss and cheerful happiness, for a short while anyway.

  She unlocked from his embrace. “Do you remember our first date?” M blushed pale pink.

  “Our first date?” Killian recited back in vague tone.

  “Yes…our first date, silly.”

  “Um, uh.”

  “Ugh, men.” M huffed, releasing her emotions, while loosely draping her arms around his neck. “You remember. Your friend Marko and my friend Jenna both had us over to their place. They both pretended it wasn’t a set up blind date, but the joke was on them, because we were already secretly dating for weeks.” M tipped her head up toward the stars in the black sky. “I knew I loved you when I saw you at Jenna’s party earlier that month.” She kissed him again.

  Killian held M by the shoulders. “M, what are you talking about?”

  “M, what’s M?” She chuckled. “I know it’s late, but you really expect me to think you forgot my name? It’s Kristen, remember?” She laughed. “We’ve been together for over a year, ya know.”

  Killian cracked an uneasy, half upward, corner lip twist. He suddenly remembered how this had happened to a few Dwellers the first time they partook. He had a set of similar memories, but he knew they were not his own. Then Killian realized that M could not tell the difference. M believed she was Kristen.

  Killian considered calling her by the name Emma to snap her to reality. But he just watched her instead.

  She used his unwilling hand to twirl and turn, swaying in the street as if everything was anew. She was jubilant and smiling, euphoric even, and for the first time since the night in the catacombs, all those nights ago, she seemed herself again.

  Killian pondered. He felt like all else was a descent from important to trivial. From the preceding rise in excitement, anything short of this fantasy for her would be a crushing letdown at this point. One that M might not recover from until her mind could accept it on its own.

  It broke his shrunken, shriveled heart to tell her the truth, so he said, “Of course I remember our first date…Kristen.” He submitted to her dream, though it would not endure past the stroke of the clock twenty-four hours from this moment. Yet he could not kill another thing this night, especially her dreams.

  “Come on. Let’s get you home before the sun comes up.” She pulled his hand.

  “I’ve got a better idea.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. Let’s not go home.”

  She giggled. “Are you crazy?”

  “No, I mean yeah. Let’s just keep on going.”

  Bewildered, she rounded her chin up, tightening her lips. “You have work, and so do I.”

  “Who cares. Let’s just keep going. Let’s just follow the night and see where it takes us.” Killian kissed her cheek, holding the small of her back, dipping her as he did, and then releasing for a reaction.

  “What…we need money. Are we supposed to live off of love or something?”

  “Something like that,” he retorted.

  She stood there, silently holding his hand, waiting to see if he would let slip a smile, or a grin. He did not. “You’re really serious, aren’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  “But what about…”

  He knifed into her sentence. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters to me but you.”

  Her head bobbled up and down slowly. She reached out and firmly held his hand. �
�Let’s go then.”

  The two of them walked up the street and out of sight, out of town, and kept happily walking from there onward.

  Meanwhile, as the other Dweller who departed from Killian and M neared the next town where Nytmar and his pack hunted, another edible target on their indiscriminate killing spree had been spotted walking in and out of the gloomy, shaded places of the dark, peaceful hamlet.

  Buildings of small and wide sizes bunched like a crooked cross, from four directions, until they converged in the main opening at the center of town. Monuments of men stood in place for lost soldiers in forgotten battles. Their cold eyes incapable of tears, their ears unable to hear, and though having mouths, they could not speak a word. They had wonderfully sculpted heads, yet these monument men lacked even the ability to understand simple words engraved in concise statements of truth, bolted on plaques, and framed under them: ‘They will not learn war anymore.’

  These iron relics, a true vestige of glorified ideals, provided a short, entertaining account of events idolizing wars—wars that meant little at the time and nothing at all now.

  The buildings all around were old, with chipped paint. Less than presentable, the dated, tiny shops remained open, with few customers all day long, while the pubs filled to the brim throughout the night.

  Still, this tiny town was an ironic icon. A few houses remained glorious mansions on the distant hills. Wealth, though present in worthy spots, stood blatantly among the impoverished alcoves. The muddled streets lined like reckless dots speckled on canvas, sketching a portrait of pretense and denial. The run-down image forged a print of the destitute, with numbers uncountable as starry clusters in the night sky. However, the impoverished were ignored as the ugly things in an ugly world for those who wished to taste only the sweet portions in life.

  With hands in trim, slack pockets, a slender, lone human figure appeared strolling toward the middle of town. It seemed a male at a distance, skinny, with height near six feet. The Dwellers, positioning themselves for another kill, bound silently from one staggered row of packed rooftops to another set of roofs forty to fifty feet across the same street.

  The slender man looked over his shoulder a time or two, almost as if he could hear the quiet, impending ambush. Conversely, he buried his hands deeper into his pockets and continued walking ahead, toward the monument in the center of town.

  Three Dwellers now formed a triangle of doom high above on the rooftops. Their human prey unknowingly ambled at a leisurely pace. He sauntered along the town streets, in the Dwellers’ perfect kill-box below.

  Nytmar held two talons in the air, signaling one of the Dwellers to go in and make the capture. With a nod, one of the Dwellers swung its arms down for a power jump from a rooftop. It leaned its body opposite the direction of the man, and vaulted down toward him with a blitzing thump of speed.

  Flying through the air, the Dweller unleashed its ten razor-tipped talons, opening its fangs for a large bite.

  The man suddenly disappeared, and the Dweller crashed, face first on the hard ground, breaking several of its fangs, leaving it dazed and stumbling about from side to side on the street below.

  The two other Dwellers looked on, and for the first time since their nightly hunts, they were in full disbelief. Nytmar and the other Dweller jumped down to where the stumbling Dweller staggered about, confused and temporarily incoherent as if it had just left one of the local pubs.

  Suddenly, a whistle from above, the three Dwellers braced and looked up. Their edible target balanced himself on top of the monument. On the monument’s head, the man supported the entire weight of his body with a single hand. His arm straight, his body and toes vertical up in the air, his exploit of gymnastic display was more than human. He steadied himself, peering down at all three of the Dwellers.

  With outward curved legs, the Dwellers moved crabwise. “You’re not human.” Nytmar gave a swift, enquiring look.

  The man replied, “Neither are you, foul beast.”

  A gruff voice strained. “What are you?”

  “I’m Vincent.”

  “I don’t care who you are.” Nytmar pointed. “I want to know what you are.”

  “Vulgar demon, you are bold for attacking me. I don’t owe you any further information.” Vincent remained indignant, with a certain swagger. He continued antagonizing. “You are the point of disgust. I knew of your dubious schemes before you even attacked me.”

  “How?” Nytmar barked. It ground its fangs at him, while indirectly looking for a way to get up to Vincent.

  “I know what you’re doing.” Vincent smirked. It was apparent to him even in his compromised state. “I don’t like it, so why don’t you knock it off before I do you a favor by killing you.”

  Nytmar scoffed. “One Dweller can kill twenty men.”

  “But as you said, I am not just a man.” Vincent winked.

  The Dwellers continued to position themselves around Vincent as he nimbly balanced on the monument high above the ground.

  Its blunt snout huffed with strong outburst. “Then what are you?” Nytmar demanded.

  Vincent openly insulted them. “Far superior than a freak like you.”

  “You’re an immortal,” Nytmar shouted. It talked to itself. “Are you Shroud? No. Are you a knight? No.” It kneaded its talons.

  Vincent remained silent, yet stunned all the same.

  “Yes,” Nytmar repeated. “That’s what you are. You are an immortal, but what kind?”

  Another Dweller spoke up. “But master did not tell us immortals would be out here.”

  “Shut up!” Nytmar spit at the other Dweller before it turned its attention back toward Vincent on his high perch. “You’ll have to excuse that one. He’s a little stupid in the head. Not all of us freaks are created equal, if you know what I mean.” Vincent appeared baffled, and Nytmar read with a glance. “No…no I suppose you don’t know what I mean.”

  A more serious tone replaced Vincent’s taunts. “I expected other immortals were stealing certain humans again, like during the Shadow Harvest…” He pulled back. He knew he had given the Dwellers what they wanted, more information.

  Nytmar cracked a miserable smile. “So you are Shroud?” Nytmar talked aloud to himself again. “Or at least were. But no one leaves the Shroud alive.”

  “I’m not Shroud, but you’re certainly from Malum.” Vincent’s words sucked the breath out of his own chest. He hated the taste of that name—Malum. He puckered as it rolled off his tongue. Always fearless, Vincent knew fear again, not for himself, but for his beloved Noemi.

  Two Dwellers bowed when Vincent uttered Malum’s name. Except Nytmar did not bend in reverence. He straightened his hunched spine, standing even taller than before.

  “I serve what puts food in my belly.” Nytmar’s large, black saucers stared. It noticed Vincent’s weight-bearing arm begin to tremble. “Losing your strength, immortal?”

  Vincent’s face turned red. “Not at all.” His pulse increased.

  “Humans are tasty, but I’ve always wanted to try immortal meat.” Nytmar ushered the two other Dwellers inward and screamed, “He’s weak. Get him!”

  With unsurpassed speed, Vincent pushed his body off the monument’s head, springing backward onto his feet in the middle of the town square. In reverse, Vincent landed with a backslide, and a distant focus.

  Trying to catch Vincent, one of the Dwellers pounced on top of the monument, but it captured only the iron head of the statue. Its talons jammed deeply into the iron. The Dweller ripped the iron into shreds, eviscerating the pieces off its claws, while ripping the statue’s head clean from its shoulders, before throwing the pieces of iron head clanging to the ground.

  Vincent’s chest heaved convulsively. He braced his legs wide apart, and with a dazed look, he hunched himself forward, though slightly winded, he slowed his breaths. Vincent had not fought in q
uite some time, and the last fight was a terrible loss. He attempted to hide his anxiety and doubt. His weaknesses were evident when he fought Malum. His self-taught, repetitive tendencies cost him last time. He closed his eyes and began mumbling, “From practice to reflex. From practice to reflex,” he repeated.

  The Dwellers were baffled, their necks angled up and down.

  “GO!” Nytmar yelled again. “He’s hallucinating.”

  A keen sense allowed Vincent to see even with his eyes closed. He balled his fist, summoning a double-edged, twin-bladed striker. Rizzz. The sword droned an incandescent, menacing, blue specter with rotating luminous bands around the striker among nightfall’s blackish air.

  Like beasts, savage and brutal, all three Dwellers attacked from different sides. In disordered chaos, they merged upon Vincent, aggressive, physical, and violent.

  The Dwellers were a collection of jagged, bony points, leathery skin, fangs, sickle talons, and rounded, lumped backs. They rushed about in a fury, and in a total, vicious loss of control. Without restraint of moral sense, the Dwellers indulged in a deranged feeding frenzy of mad bloodlust.

  They should have been afraid of this immortal and his striker, but they were too busy preparing to eat, and so the Dwellers considered nothing else.

  His practice now in action, Vincent swung his blade with deadly accuracy. Swash! His sword struck the air, one slice right after another.

  The Dwellers hurled themselves with speed and strength toward Vincent. A speed and strength that he began to respect.

  Vincent’s striker clashed against the Dweller’s black, tar like talons. Clang! Blue sparks flew as each repelled the other.

  “That’s impossible!” Vincent, taken aback, shouted.

  “What?” Nytmar retorted. “You didn’t think we could defeat you, immortal?”

  Vincent sneered. “Nothing is so strong as a knight’s striker.” He huffed and puffed. Fash! With agility, he dodged swipes, kicks, and grabs, still staying two steps ahead of the Dwellers. “Yet your claws, they…I can’t break them. A striker breaks all things.”