by A Corrin
“Peter!” I coughed. “We’re being attacked!” I looked around for him and saw the great griffin watching me from up and to my right with an apologetic, sheepish smile. I came to the instant conclusion that it had been he who’d hit me.
“What was that for?” I scowled indignantly. Maybe he really did want to kill me…
“I wanted to see how you would react to an air attack.”
“Oh, really?” I groused, but my interest was piqued. “Well, how did I do?”
Peter squinted, unsure of how to answer. “Announcing that we were being attacked was sort of stating the obvious, don’t you think?”
I mumbled irritably under my breath.
“What was that?” Peter asked, gliding closer.
I said, “How was I supposed to act?”
Peter soared over and hovered in front of me. “You should have fought back. Attack me.”
I almost forgot to flap. “Attack you?”
He nodded, eyes keen. Shrugging, I flew at him, vowing to go easy, but he somehow avoided me and kicked down into my back. I fought for composure, resuming my position in the air, and protested loudly, “Ow, man, c’mon!”
Peter circled around with a warning gleam in his eyes. “Now I’ll try!” he called. Swooping over, he struck out with his fishhook talons. I made a split-second decision and pushed to one side with one wing, flipping into a roll—like I was in the heat of a game, dodging a tackle. Even then, one of Peter’s talons clipped my wing, leaving raw scratches and pulling some feathers loose. I yelped, and he pulled into a sharp about-face to pursue. With football tactics fresh in my mind, I snatched desperately at which of my skills I could apply in this instance. Peter was powerful, but I was smaller. Faster.
The dark-brown griffin stretched out his talons to grab at my wing again, and I instantly closed them—maneuvers coming only half-baked into my mind. I dropped backward, for a moment suspended upside down in the sky, but before I could rocket into another vomit-inducing nose-dive, I opened my wings again and performed a midair backflip. Peter sailed over where my wing had been an instant before, and I came up right behind him in time to swat at the feathers spread at the end of his tail.
He fumbled a bit, wobbling, but I may as well have been a kitten playing with its mother’s twitching tail for all the damage I did. Still, he tossed me a small, proud look that gleamed in his silver eyes before spinning and nipping me in the shoulder with his long orange beak.
“Yowch! Enough!” I exclaimed, examining the tiny bald spot that had been inflicted.
Peter seemed a bit troubled and mused, “Perhaps that was too tough. You did just learn how to fly.”
“Yeah,” I agreed heartily.
“All things considered, that wasn’t too bad. I think you learned a lesson, though.”
“Not to take my eyes off you,” I shot.
“Or any enemy,” Peter added sternly, then: “It’s a good start.”
Although it may not have seemed like it, I had taken Peter’s lesson to heart and also learned to dodge in the air. I knew that would come in handy. So I added it to my rapidly filling mental bulletin board.
“What are these dinky little tail feathers for?” I asked Peter, swooping low to skim some tree branches with my claws.
“They perfect maneuvers to the letter. If you go into a roll, as you did when I feigned an attack on you, the movement is slow, clumsy. By spreading those feathers and positioning your tail, the roll is sharper and faster. It’s very handy in battle.” He demonstrated for me, and I tried myself, dizzily discerning which way was up afterward and vowing never to try it again.
I found out the names of some of the other creatures native to this strange place as I flew. When I asked what the little flying lizards jumping from holes in the cliffside below were, Peter answered, “Wyvern hatchlings. Looks like they’re out for their first hunt. Not the friendliest creatures…we must be getting close.”
“So,” I said, wishing to get answers to some questions before we landed or my aching wings fell off. “If you’re dreaming—having a nightmare—and the Ranker causing it dies, what happens to the person dreaming?”
Peter answered cheerfully, “Their minds are freed and they wake up and start over.”
“Who kills them?” I asked, though I suspected I already knew the answer.
“We do,” Peter said. “The good guys who dream about defeating the ‘bad guys,’ and, of course, ‘bad guys’ being Rankers in disguise.”
I pondered that. It all sounded so…gosh darn heroic. Fighting bad, good always wins, and that sort of stuff.
“That collage of faces in one of those books you sent me? The griffin one. Were they…like us? Who were they exactly?” I asked.
Peter’s expression turned sad. After taking a moment to coast on a warm late-afternoon breeze, he said, “Brave young people who died before their time. They all had great hearts. They would have done the world plenty of good if the Rankers hadn’t killed them.”
I felt myself grow chilly, and a sour taste filled my mouth. How sad. And I was expected to do something about these monsters?
As if reading my mind, Peter said, “Jonathan, everyone has a darker side to them. But some choose to ignore it for the most part and act on the other side. They have an obligation to those who might be caught somewhere in between—to protect the innocent and defeat the wicked.”
I was reminded of the little girl who had vanished under mysterious circumstances near where I lived. Anger filled me—no, not anger, hatred. I needed to understand this enemy. Peter’s book had told me some of the how (—the dark powers the Rankers used)—and the why (—the wickedness that drove them),—but I needed to understand more about the who if I was ever to confront the monsters again.
“So, they have allies,” I said. “They have an army, or they’re trying to amass one, which implies a martial chain of command. What weapons do they use? What are their battlefield tactics?”
“No,” Peter interrupted. “Those are good questions, but you’re trying to put them in a box. Rankers don’t fit in a box—they aren’t constrained by the rules men at war must follow in reality. Rankers are a dark force, and until now, they have never struck out in such numbers, with such cohesion. Yes, they have allies—evil always will—and, yes, they seem to have fashioned for themselves a semblance of military ranks, but most of the information we are now acting upon was brand-new intel as of only a few years ago. I’m not exaggerating when I say that you know as much about them as we do.”
Alarm raced up my spine and made my wings shake a bit. I pinned my ears back and forced my voice to remain steady.
“And yet you seem confident that we have some sort of edge or advantage.”
“We do—we’ve intercepted their clues. If we can find out their plans, and the location of their base”—he shook his head—“that’ll be a gold mine.”
“Sounds like quite a gamble.” My voice dripped with doubt.
“Maybe it is. But we also have an ace in the deck—”
“If you say me, I swear to—”
“You.”
“Oh, for shit’s sake...”
“Jonathan.” Peter angled his wings so that he dropped back level with me, our wingtips almost touching. His silver eyes pierced me beneath his low eagle brow. “You heard what those mermaids said. You are the herald of a new age. Now you got a lot of folks that believe in you, including me. How long before you start believing in yourself?”
I felt my face grow hot under my feathers, and didn’t answer, wrestling with my own discomfort. I’m a football player whose mom died and whose dad knocks him around. How can I be anything more than that?
Something caught my eye below.
The tree line dipped down and stopped with a few clustered rows of sickly and twisted bare trees. Here, earthy ground was replaced with pools of burblin
g greenish-gray soup pockmarked with islands of muddy, weed-choked slush. The small valley dipped back up a hill seemingly in danger of crumbling in on itself, then grew dark and misted into the foggy depths of more unhealthy trees.
“What is that place?” I coughed out disgustedly. The noxious fumes hit me even up here. It smelled like decay.
“Our destination,” Peter said gravely. “The Melancholy Bog.”
Chapter Thirteen:
Meanwhile, Back in Reality
At St. Paul’s Hospital
Nikki sat at the windowsill, looking at the busy traffic crowding the road eight stories below her, studying the colorful life.
Life. What a word. The hospital seemed so devoid of it.
The room she was in had reddish-brown walls and warm lights that couldn’t be turned on too bright. A small TV was tucked behind a panel on a shelf in the wall. Chairs, a table, and a couch covered with a rumpled bed-sheet were squeezed by the walls.
The adults were out getting dinner. They took turns spending the night there and only rarely remembered to feed themselves.
Lights were just beginning to wink on in the street lamps outside. Restaurants turned on their neon signs. People bundled up cozily for the cold stayed close together on the sidewalk to avoid the water from puddles thrown up by the racing cars.
Nikki swallowed, blinked, and raked a hand through her bangs, trying to stop thinking about the homework load that waited for her at home. It was as if teachers didn’t care that the whole world was collapsing on its knees. Maybe they thought homework would keep everyone from going insane.
“Have you found anything out yet?” a small voice asked from the center of the room.
Nikki jumped and turned around. “Tyson! I didn’t think you were awake!”
Tyson twitched the hand with the IV in it. “Am I?” he teased.
Nikki shook her head in mock exasperation and took the chair by his bedside. Tyson’s girlfriend Lia was in a chair keeled over across the edge of his bed asleep with her arms folded under her head. Lia was usually the most well-kempt of their group. Her bright blonde hair was usually silky, her makeup spot-on, her clothes trendy and flattering. But not today. Today, her hair was thrown into a messy bun and she wore one of Tyson’s grubby old sweatshirts.
“How do you feel?” Nikki asked softly, trying not to wake Lia up.
Tyson had recovered extraordinarily fast from his list of wounds. His mother and father had been released long before and now hardly ever left his side except to eat and give him and his visitors privacy. His eyes had deep shadows, and cuts were scattered on his face like red pen marks. Both arms were heavily bandaged, and his leg was suspended in a sling from the ceiling. Gauze encased his head, torso, and the hand with the reattached fingers. Now it was all painful therapy.
“I—am—fi-nuh,” he enunciated, with the air of having answered this question many times.
Nikki carefully patted the back of the hand nearest her. “I just worry about you. You’ve been through so much. That plane…you were right in the middle of it. The doctors said it was a miracle, and I know those happen, but still—”
While she talked, Tyson slowly slid his head sideways against the pillow. He stared blankly ahead as if dead and parted his lips to emit a long steady, “Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep,” as if his heart rate monitor was reading zero.
“Oh, stop it!” Nikki laughed, leaning back.
Tyson chuckled weakly and said, “Then stop avoiding the question! I guess the police couldn’t find any sign of Jonathan?”
“No. The news crew put out a story today.”
Tyson’s eyes roved to where the television set was shut behind its doors, as if thinking about whether to turn it on, but instead he returned his focus to his friend.
“I wonder… Have you seen any sign of Garrett?”
Nikki had to dig her nails into her arms to keep from visibly shuddering. She would never forget that day in the park when Garrett and those other…whatever they were…had jumped her and Jon. She hadn’t mentioned Rankers to any of the others yet. Too much had happened since that conversation with Jon. “No.”
Tyson growled menacingly. “I wouldn’t put it past him to have done anything.”
Nikki shook her head. “No, me neither. But the police couldn’t find any sign of him or his family when I told them he was a suspect. It’s like he moved away or something. They’re looking for him too. And you know what?” Her voice dropped lower, and she leaned forward. “One police officer who was searching in the woods outside Jon’s house yesterday looked up and came face-to-face with a pure-white horse.”
“A horse?” Tyson raised a brow.
“Uh-huh, and he told Mr. He’klarr that, after he saw it, he got a weird feeling that…everything was going to be okay.”
A wry smile twisted Tyson’s mouth. “How did Mr. He’klarr take that?”
Nikki widened her eyes. “He yelled at him to get back out and look for his son, not imaginary animals. But when he went out to look for himself, the same thing happened. He looked at the horse and felt almost hypnotized. He just turned around and headed back. Everyone who comes close to it turns right around. The whole thing was on the news today.” She became quiet and twiddled her thumbs uncomfortably.
A nurse came in with some Jell-O and set it in Tyson’s lap. She checked him over, gave him a fond smile, and left.
Ty exchanged an exaggerated, worried look with Nikki when he spooned up some of the bright-red gelatin. Experimentally, he stuck out his tongue and poked the food with its tip. Satisfied, he wolfed the spoonful down.
When he could speak again, he said, “Weird. Have they called animal control?”
Nikki replied, “Yeah, but when they got out there, it was gone. No one’s seen it since. Mr. He’klarr thinks it found its way back home.”
Tyson sank back into his pillow a bit. “Ever since he left, everything’s been more messed up, huh?”
“Yes, it has,” agreed Nikki. She thought of that night in the park with Garrett. “Actually...ever since we saw Garrett on the mountain...”
“You think so?” Tyson asked, surprised. Then he blinked. Frowned. “You know, I guess you’re right.” He sat up straighter with a grimace of discomfort. “You don’t think he has anything to do with everything else going on, do you?”
Fear made Nikki feel hollow—insignificant and weak. There had been something about the way those strangers had talked to them that night. And Jonathan had said something the following Sunday about some kind of monster he’d read about. She couldn’t remember what he had called it, but remembered him challenging her skepticism. Are you really willing to rule out a supernatural explanation?
“I think that there is more going on here than we’re aware of,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I think that everything that’s been happening...the violence, the disappearances...it’s all connected somehow.
Tyson nodded slowly. Thoughtfully.
“There was a kid in the room next to mine,” he said. “Perfectly healthy except that he was recovering from a minor concussion from a fall. He was always visiting me. We became good friends. Then one day he was gone. No one knew where to or how. One of the docs would’ve seen someone come or go, and nobody had checked the kid out of the hospital. It was like that story in the news about that kidnapped girl. Real spooky. I felt awful for his family. They cried like they were dying slow deaths.” He sighed through his nose and added, “I don’t think people are just disappearing. The news is making it sound like they’re just getting up and walking away, because that’s the only thing that makes sense. But...I think they’re being taken.”
Nikki looked up sharply. “Why do you say that?”
Tyson shrugged one shoulder, confusion puzzling his face as if he couldn’t completely understand his hunch himself. “Just a feeling. What would kidnappers want with a bunc
h of random people? What’s the MO? It’s more like people are being selectively removed. Taken out of the way of something.”
“Jonathan too? You think he stood in the way of some nefarious plan?” Her tone may have been sarcastic, but Nikki’s eyes were wide and honest, thirsty for truths that no one had, desperate for clarity. However far-fetched some might have found Tyson’s suspicions, she felt that they made more sense than what the tabloids were saying. And she realized that she, too, could not explain why. It was as if she and Tyson stood on the brink of a discovery, but it was too slippery for them to grab hold of properly.
“I don’t know,” Ty said. A dark spark kindled in his brown eyes. He fiddled with his hospital bracelet, spinning it around and around his wrist, and murmured, “But as soon as I get out of here, I’m going to try to find out.”
Nikki wished she had Tyson’s bravado. What could they do that the authorities couldn’t? She shook her head helplessly and leaned against the wall, reading the various get-well cards on Tyson’s bedside table. She stopped on one with a neat sketch of an ambulance on the front. She could almost hear its flashing sirens, it was so realistic.
“We’ve got another one,” Tyson murmured.
Nikki looked quizzically at him. His head was tilted to one side, his eyes directed out the window. “Oh,” she said. She went to look outside again. She had heard sirens. Two ambulances raced by, getting curious stares from the worried people on the sidewalks.
Nikki had heard more and more sirens lately. Sighing, she rejoined her friend’s side, sick with worry for Jonathan.
She really missed him.
Chapter Fourteen:
The Worst Vacation Destination Ever
I sort of crash-landed in the mud. Peter was too busy to assist me; he had to meet up with the squadron. He led them over to me, we bunched warily together, and we moved on.
The bubbly bog water was hot, almost unbearably so. I hated to think about the bacteria swimming around in it. The soldiers were steel-faced, but their feet had to be getting soaked through their shoes, and the gladiators had only thin sandals on their otherwise bare feet. I swallowed my own discomfort and muscled my way up the rise.
