by Mark Tufo
***
Tommy spotted Mike fighting. He had completely forgotten about the fire and why it hadn’t been lit. Preserving one’s life tended to intrude on all extraneous thoughts. He knew what Mike was asking as soon as the words blistered into his mind.
Going to have to teach him some volume control, Tommy thought as he grabbed Bailey and headed back towards the fence line. Werewolves were still making their way in, and it was all they could do to get to one of the torches that lined the street. Tommy snapped it off at its hilt and ran towards the trench. The fire was attracting unwanted attention. Tommy was carving a path; he could see the futility of being able to make enough forward progress. He quickly moved his sword to his left hand and the pitch-soaked torch to his right.
He reared back and tossed the torch as far as he could, the flame had no sooner left his hand than he felt a savage bite on his knee. The bones splintered as the animal tore through the fabric of his being. Tommy wailed in pain as the animal shook its large head back and forth. He was frozen in shock. Bailey drove her bayonet through the back of its head and then kicked it in the jaw to push it away from him.
“GO!” he screamed when she tried to grab his arm and help him. “We won’t make it! GO!”
Bailey saw the wisdom in his words, but it wasn’t in her to leave someone behind. They’d never be able to move fast enough together to get away. She would stay and fight with him until the end – which seemed exceedingly close at the moment. She moved out of saber range but stayed back to back with him. Werewolves closed in from all angles. There was a flash of heat as the torch found its mark. A gust of super-heated air blew past them. Werewolves close to the conflagration erupted in great gouts of flame. The chaos that ensued as burning werewolves ran into each other was the window that Bailey needed to half carry Tommy away from the melee. Tommy had taken on a sickly hue as his body did what it could to mitigate the bite and reverse the damage.
“Are you in danger?” Bailey asked as they huddled behind a broken brick wall.
“I think that goes without saying.” Tommy winced.
“From the bite,” she said stingingly.
“From turning? No. But the bite carries its own toxins that will make healing that much more difficult and painful. Werewolves don’t have enough of the disease in them to turn anyone, but it’s still enough to kill a person if they don’t get proper attention.” Tommy was trying to readjust his leg, every position seemed to cause more pain than the last.
“At least we stopped them,” Bailey said as she peeked over the wall.
Tommy was still for a moment, his face turning white as if someone had draped a funeral shroud over him. “I never thought it would end this way,” he said aloud.
“What way? You’re not dead yet. BT’s journals said Mike was prone to dramatics, it didn’t mention you anywhere in that passage.
A small smile crept across his face. “He really is, isn’t he? He’s the key in all of this, Bailey. You need to protect him.”
“From what?” she asked, not sure where or why this conversation was going on.
“From himself, of course. He’s always been his own worst enemy.”
“You protect him. I’m no one’s babysitter,” she said defiantly. She had meant it as a way to help stop his defeatist, dour way of thinking…not as a rebuke.
“He needs you now.” His eyes rolled up a little into his head before coming back and focusing on her.
“That may be. Although I have no way of knowing how you know that. But what I do know, without a doubt, is that you need me as well.”
“Ever play chess?” Tommy asked obscurely.
“I have, Tommy. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Sometimes an advantage can be gained with a sacrifice.”
She liked his words less and less.
“But only if the player is deft enough to realize this. You must make him see this, he will come to a crossroads and it will be your forceful hand that will nudge him in the right direction.”
“Are you saying we are merely pawns in Michael’s game?”
Tommy looked at her sweetly. “No, my child,” he said, struggling to get his hand to her face. “We are all powerful pieces. You, me, Azile…even Lana will play her part, but Mike is the king.” He laughed, a spot of blood falling from the corner of his mouth. “Don’t tell him that, though, his head is already too big.”
“I need to get you to help,” she said with alarm as she looked down to his ravaged knee, a puddle of blood had pooled beneath it. “Will my blood help?”
“Don’t!” he said in alarm, “I would not be able to control myself. Go help Mike. When the moon has finished its damned journey, bring help back here. I promise I won’t move.” He laughed weakly.
“You die on me, Tommy, and leave me with that crazy man…I will haunt you to the ends of the earth.”
“I look forward to it.”
She had no idea the true meaning behind his words, but she did not like the way in which they were delivered. She once again rose to look up; the werewolves that had not been burned in the flash were gone. She hoped they had retreated, but she had a better idea of which direction they had headed.
“You stay here, Tommy, do you hear me?”
He nodded.
She meant spiritually. Physically, nothing short of two strong men and a litter were going to be able to move him without incurring more damage.
“Eliza?” Tommy asked.
Bailey shuddered as she moved, keeping her profile low to match the wall. She knew all about the Cruel One, and to think she was close enough that Tommy could sense her was enough to get her moving. Werewolves had taken a backseat in terms of fear – at least for the moment. She found herself pursuing werewolves, which was entirely more palatable than the other way around. She had a few bullets left – six if she had been keeping accurate count – but she wanted to save those. Also, using them would give her away.
Werewolves and Wheatonville residents choked the roadway. It looked as if the townsfolk were giving as well as they were getting. It was still an unsustainable war. The Lycan would always be able to rearm, so to speak. Those were thoughts for another time, she figured, as she drove her bayonet up and through the back of a werewolf’s neck. Another was leaning up against a wall snarling at her. His leg had been chopped off at the knee. She brought the rifle to her shoulder and almost splattered his brains on the wooden wall behind him.
“Dammit,” she muttered pulling the rifle down. She didn’t want to get too close but she also didn’t want to alert any others nearby. The werewolf was swiping with his massive paws. “How bad you want it!” She charged at him.
The thrust caught the edge of his nose, slid up the cartilage and pierced his eye; he was still before he could take an effective stab at Bailey. The rest of her journey towards the center was unencumbered with the living. For good or bad, everything that was going to take place was directly up ahead. She was distinctly aware of the passage of time and how every second she was away from Tommy was a moment lost in being able to rescue him. Even though she had known it was too late as she left him.
And there he was, the ignorant, pig-headed Michael, fighting like a demon amongst devils. Tommy was right. He was in danger, and nothing short of a miracle was going to save him. She was running towards him, rifle set securely in her shoulder. The steel sights bobbing wildly, every step changing her point of aim; left foot was the werewolf coming up behind him, right foot was Mike. Her left foot came down and she pulled on the trigger thinking she may have yanked it back a little too hard jerking her even further up and off target. If anything, it had saved Mike’s life as the bullet caught the werewolf flush in the side of the head, sending a misty red spray across the throng. She dropped five more in various states of pain and death as she came up alongside Mike.
