by J. N. Chaney
The kid’s voice goes up half an octave. “Do you see me rushing to get in front of you?”
“I’m moving to your right,” Shaina says. “We should start picking targets because there will be too many for us to shoot if we want to have any charge left in our guns.”
“Just hold on,” I say. “There’s something off about this scenario.”
When the distant street lights catch the bodies, I think they look human, and young, like children. They’re also wearing painted masks. The colors don’t show well with next to nothing to illuminate them. I can just discern patterns scribbled across the twisted surfaces like something from a nightmare.
The style reminds me of the poor imitation of Dogan nursery rhymes someone made into bloody graffiti all over this end of the field. It’s everywhere: on the ground, benches, and buildings that are the backdrop to this scene. Japanese demon masks, haunted buildings, and oversized samurai with guns fill my imagination. The first portion of the fantasy is the newcomers. The latter is Zedas, who looks just as deadly in reality.
The small creatures dance and screech, sometimes running in a circle, and sometimes crawling over the top of each other to do flips and somersaults.
I stand up straighter and lower my weapon.
“What are you doing, Murph?” Shaina asks.
I swagger forward several steps, then stop with one hand on my hip.
“Murph?” Shaina whistles at Zedas for support. “Talk to him, big guy. He’s taken leave of his senses.”
“Perhaps he has a secret dream of being eaten by blood gate monsters,” Zedas says.
“They’re kids, dressed up in Halloween costumes.” I holster my pistol then wave both of my hands in a shooing motion. The acrobatic crowd ignores me completely.
“That doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous,” Shaina snaps. “Don’t be a fool.”
A sliver of doubt pricks me, but I’m committed to the confrontation.
“You should listen to her,” Zedas says. “Size does not mean safety. Something painted this end of the field and all of these buildings in blood. It could be the work of these little demons.”
Patty-pats hisses, nearly twisting free of Garin’s grip.
The entire horde squats in a fighting stance, raises their claw-like hands, and snarls at me through their masks. But this time I see something different—razor-sharp teeth on several of the lifelike masks.
I step back involuntarily, immediately grabbing the grip of my pistol. To make matters worse, Patty-pats continues to hiss and nearly squirms free of Garin’s left arm.
I wait for the right moment.
“Someone better do something,” Shaina says.
Zedas roars his war song, drawing in air to fill his lungs and then bellowing his disturbing dirge.
Shaina picks a target, aims down the sights of her charge pistol, and mutters loudly. “I hate it when he does that, but at least I know his head is in the game.”
“We’re not here to fight you,” I say as I edge forward of my companions. “We need to go through the gate.”
This sends them into a frenzy and confirms my suspicion. They start to chant the phrase “blood gate, blood gate, blood gate” over and over… and they really sound like kids now.
“Leave us!” The largest of the demon children moans. The rest of them stomp their feet and pound their fists on their chests.
It’s a pretty good performance, but I only want one thing. “All right, bring it in tight. We’re going to walk right through them and use the gate.”
“I don’t like that idea,” Shaina says. “I said do something, not get us killed.”
“Do you have enough ammunition to shoot all of them, assuming you could before they run us down?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer, but that gives me the information I need. “What about you, Zedas? Can you fight fifty of these little monsters?”
“I would eventually accomplish the task,” he says.
Patty-pats swipes a claw through the air.
“Let’s just do something before I lose hold of her,” Garin says. He holsters his pistol and holds onto the cat with both hands.
Van’s words echo in my mind—his assertion that the mystery around the blood gate has held an entire city at bay for years.
Danger resonates from the DIY temple. I just don’t think it’s because of the masked children trying to scare us off. I’m also wondering how Van knows so much about this place and how to get here so easily. The flight between the buildings was something else—a man showing off but also staying below the radar of local officials.
“Shaina, have you flown with smugglers before?” I ask.
“I have, and before you ask, Van’s route to get here seemed elaborate and unnecessary no matter what he claims,” she says.
“If you’re going to hide your ship, what might be a good place in a hostile city ran by Overlords running their slave trade?” I’m not sure what good this revelation will do me, but the pieces are falling into place.
A dozen of the masked children monsters dash forward. Zedas swings his flail aggressively, driving them back.
“Van runs this place. He probably hides his ship here when he does his business with the slavers,” I suggest.
“It doesn’t matter if he is freeing people from bondage or selling them,” Shaina says. “We need to get to that gate and get back to Sarsten. The Protheans blocked our ship, remember. That means they’re probably launching a full-scale invasion, and our friends are going to be the first ones to die. They need our help!”
The closer we push to the gate, the more of the masked children fill the vacant lot. Their teeth make me uneasy, even though I assume they have to be some sort of prosthetic. Could they be mutated by the blood gate?
“This isn’t going to work,” Shaina says, sidestepping a fresh surge of the angry mob. “We have to fall back and come up with a plan.”
“Stay where you’re at. I’m going to talk to them alone,” I say.
Zedas growls. “I will remain beside you.”
“Fine, but let me handle the negotiations.” I hold my hands to show I’m unarmed and take a step toward the group. The monster kids hesitate, milling about talking to each other in a bastardized language that makes no sense. “I just want to talk. We’re not going to hurt you. We are Orphans, and we can travel through this gate.”
The front row hisses and screams. One steps forward with a wicked spear made from sheet metal.
“Is that the response you were seeking?” Zedas asks.
“Not exactly.” I stand with my arm spread wide, keeping their attention on me. “Shaina, take Garin and get to the gate entrance. We’ll follow you as soon as we can. We may be running.”
The spear-wielding child slashes the air and curses me. Others are emboldened, some of them producing makeshift weapons that look as dangerous for their unsanitary surfaces as anything else.
“We’re moving,” Shaina says.
I talk to the spear wielder, hoping he is something like a leader. “We don’t want trouble.”
“Go away!” The tall, gangly child says, then emphasizes his words with a flurry of his blade.
“We will, but we have to go that way.” I point toward the gate.
He lunges at me, but Zedas knocks the attack away.
“When shall I begin the slaughter?” Zedas asks.
“Hopefully never.” I glance toward Shaina and Garin. They’re almost to the DIY temple entrance.
“I was hoping that would be your answer,” Zedas says. “These young humans seem like misguided innocents.”
Good old Zedas. I can always trust him to be more human than half the humans I know, despite his appearance and the way he talks.
“Go or die,” the spearman spits. “We will bleed you for the blood gate.”
“We’re going. Just let us pass through,” I say, then edge closer to the gate entrance. I don’t know what to expect when we try to pass through it. Each Orphan Gate has been a
little bit different than the one preceding it. This one is definitely the strangest of all.
Something shrieks, and I see a calico shape tearing through the ranks of masked fanatics.
“Patty-pats!” Garin shouts as he pursues the cat.
Shaina follows right behind them. “Garin, get your scrawny butt back here.”
“Come on, Zedas!” I race forward, waving my arms to scare away the blood-painted children when I can and push others when they block me. Zedas snatches the spear out of the leader’s hands and throws it aside.
The largest group of children clusters around a pile of debris stacked around a bunker door or cellar entrance. Again, I’m reminded this isn’t Earth or any city like it. When we finally reach the cat’s hiding place, I decide it’s a disaster shelter.
More of the dark red and brown graffiti decorates the place. The fanatical children that we were able to push aside or intimidate now draw together and form a determined line. Patty-pats, unfortunately, is well inside the perimeter.
Shaina grabs Garin by the collar of his coat and pulls him back. “We have to leave her.”
“No we don’t!”
Again I move forward to negotiate. “We don’t want to hurt you.”
“You sicked your attack gija-gija after us, but now we have a trap-trap,” the spear wielder says, nursing a black eye he must’ve gotten from his confrontation with Zedas.
“This is a misunderstanding,” I say, but they aren’t listening.
Shaina moves up behind me. “We have a bigger problem. The gate isn’t the gate. It’s an elaborate façade. This fallout bunker...”
Facts come to me. Maybe I’m an idealist at heart, but this secret entrance in the center of the Overlord’s slave city reminds me of the Underground Railroad from U. S. history. “This leads underground to where the real gate is because all of the gates have been underground,” I say. “So now we’re right back where we started, needing to get past these children without getting killed or killing them. I’d bet money there is a lot more beyond this door than most people realize.”
A commotion draws my attention back the way we came. The street gang has returned, and they brought friends. Three dozen muscle-bound enforcers bang their fists together as they swagger forward. They also brought more guns, shooting them in the air in fits of bravado.
The blood-painted Temple children shriek and wail, then stream into the bunker, like they’ve done this before. The door is heavy, and it takes several of them to pull it closed.
“Zedas, grab that door and follow them. We have to go underground to find the gate.”
21
The demon children prop up flimsy barriers to block our progress—slats of wood from a nearby fence, the outer skin of a car door or something very similar, chunks of concrete that are easy enough to step over tumble from a hastily constructed pile.
The larger kids throw their weight against the inadequate panels. Zedas barrels through them, scattering the blood-masked children like bowling pins. I can’t understand their words, but they’re definitely cursing us.
“Try not to hurt them! We just need to get past and find an actual door to lock behind us,” I shout as I burst inside and shine my flashlight down a darkened corridor. Monstrous images flash in the beam, claws and fangs that snap viciously.
But it’s all a ruse. They would have attacked by now. I’m convinced of it.
A few strides later, I come to the dead end caused by a collapse. Rubble fills the hallway except for a narrow gap at the top. Our unwilling hosts scamper over the obstruction with ease. They’ve obviously done this a hundred times before.
There’s no way I’ll fit, and Zedas couldn’t get his legs through.
“Those bad people are coming, Mr. Murph!” Garin yells, staring backward anxiously. A pair of goons burst through the opening, followed by a heavily inked woman with piercings through her bottom lip, ears, and between her fingers. She harangues them like a drill sergeant with a hangover.
“Grab ‘em! Grab ‘em! Don’t let the intruders hide in the hell-hell place!” she shouts. “Gotta pay the toll-toll. Make ‘em pay!”
I dart back to confront them, charge pistol raised.
One man brandishes a spiked club. The other slaps a machete in the palm of his hand as they assault me with profane threats I can’t decipher. The tone is hard to misinterpret.
“I’m only telling you once! Get the hell back,” I say through gritted teeth.
One of them hesitates, then takes a half step backward. The other charges with the spiked club. I pull the trigger twice, unable to miss at this range. Two bolts go through his chest, pitching him backward in a spray of blood.
This sends the pierced female into a howling tantrum of rage just as a half dozen gang members join her in the doorway.
“This way,” Shaina yells, then waves me down a side passage.
I shove Garin and the cat toward her as Zedas joins me to defend our retreat. We walk backward, displaying our weapons and hopefully conveying our determination to use force if necessary.
One man throws a glass bottle. Zedas slaps it deftly aside. Our pursuers lunge forward a step. We hold our ground, then retreat once they lose confidence.
The hallway is so narrow I’m not sure it isn’t just a tunnel these kids dug over the years. Dust rains down from the low ceiling. I scrape my arm against a jagged portion of the wall. Zedas walks hunched over, barely able to raise his gaze enough to see our pursuers.
“Catch up to Shaina and the others. I’ll be right behind you,” I say.
“What are you going to do, Doctor Hank Murphy?” Zedas asks.
“Negotiate,” I say. “And remind them they don’t want to be in this hell-hell place.”
“Don’t talk like them,” Zedas says. “It hurts my ears. Makes me sad and embarrassed for you.”
I get what he’s saying, but now isn’t the time to discuss it. Choosing the narrowest choke point possible, I block it and make sure to keep my gun up and visible.
The pierced woman moves around a corner to face me with a mob of gangsters behind her. “You come-come. Pay the price. Get us a good bounty.”
“Not going to happen,” I say. “Why should I go with you when the evil spirits of this place are about to come out?”
She sneers. “I’m having the charms to stop that. You know it.”
Her followers nod enthusiastically and bang fists on their own chests. Some of them stomp their feet, and they all brandish crude weapons.
My situation could be worse. At least these aren’t ice spiders or Protheans. The danger is real, however, and I force myself to remember that there is a reason no one comes to this part of the Overlord city.
“You come-come, right now,” she says.
“Not in your wildest dreams,” I say, wishing I had phrased my retort differently. “I’m an Orphan. This place is like a second home to me. The demons and ghosts can’t touch me.”
The woman appears doubtful but no less scornful of my basic existence. Finally, after cursing me in her own language and arguing with several of the warriors backing her up, she flips me a rude gesture and spits.
“We go now. Get the Overlords,” she says. “Overlord raiders pay us big time. You die-die or go prison.”
The angry mob evaporates the way they came. Silence surrounds me. The faint drip of water echoes from the direction my friends went.
“Zedas, I’m on my way.” I don’t wait for a reply, which is good, because none answers.
The idea of an Overlord raid doesn’t excite me. I think about why the pierced woman said that and almost decide it was a bluff.
But of course it isn’t.
The passage twists downward and to the right until it meets up with a proper hallway. I continue until I reach the stairway and take it to the next level down.
Stepping through the door, I see my friends standing among two dozen people—not demon-masked children or gang members. Shaina moves among them, treating minor wounds
and sickness. Garin holds Patty-pats to his chest and looks sad.
Half the room is flooded with stagnant water leaking from a pipe. Most of the dry area is covered with a temporary camp of sorry-looking refugees.
“What is this, Zedas?” I ask.
“Shaina tells me they are escaped slaves,” the Dogan says. “She says they are sneaking to a place where they can live free.”
Everything clicks into place—the elaborate hoax of the masked children, the blood-colored graffiti, the evil reputation someone has been working so hard to maintain for this place. The blood gate is nothing but an elaborate ruse to keep people away while smugglers take escaped slaves to freedom.
I hope there is actually an Orphan Gate here. If that is another lie—we’re in trouble, and so is the resistance.
“Shaina, when you have a minute,” I say. “We have a problem.”
“Really? I thought we were in the clear. These vigorous young men and women have our backs if demon children, street gangs, or the entire Prothean invasion come after us,” she says.
Some of the refugees are in the prime of life, but most of them are extremely young or wretchedly old. They lack food, proper clothing, and medical supplies. None of them have weapons.
I guide her several paces from the strangers. “One of the gang leaders told me there was going to be an Overlord raid.”
“Now? What kind of luck are we having today?” she demands.
I shake my head but elect not to comment. “Have they told you anything useful?”
“Depends on what interests you,” she says. “Van is a saint in their eyes. He’s taken thousands of them off planet. This has been a sanctuary for escaped slaves for several years. I think Van organized it.”
“Good for him,” I say, distracted by all the variables I must manage.
“I’ll reserve judgement until I see where he actually takes them. For all we know, he just sells them on another planet,” she says. “I hope not, but I’m not feeling generous.”
“Me neither.” I look toward the far exit. “Were they hiding here? This doesn’t look like a proper camp.”
“They were taking a break on their way to a safe house.” Shaina waves over an older man with gray hair. He wears overalls stained with grease and sturdy boots. I see tools in his belt and a hat tucked under one arm. “This is Jaymes. He’s in charge.”
