by Jeff Long
Stay pure, Clemens had told her. He had known. She didn’t share any of this with Hunter. He had partaken of the meat, she had seen it, meaning he was doomed enough without her pronouncing the inevitable to him.
The end came softly, on bare feet, with golden hair.
“Goddamn him,” Hunter breathed.
Far below, a tiny figure was approaching. Rebecca fumbled for her binoculars. She focused. “Sam,” she whispered.
It was Sam, and yet not Sam. The girl was in rags, no surprise. Her blond hair was flattened to a greasy cowl. That’s what shampoo was for. She was thin. That could be fixed, too.
But it was more than that. She looked different from the way Rebecca remembered, like a garden that has grown wild and spilled from its margins. In the space of three months, she had sprouted like a weed and lost every last ounce of her baby fat and learned to shuffle like an inmate.
Jake had once taken the family for one of his camping epics, and it took three days to get all the cockles out of Sam’s hair, and the tics unscrewed, and the blisters mending. That was Rebecca’s first thought as she peered through the binoculars. Sam needed some hot soup, a long bath, and a whole lot of TLC. With enough combing and scrubbing, it would all wash clean. They could start over.
“Sam,” she called loudly.
The child was jarred awake. “Mommy?” Her voice was so tiny, but it was definitely hers.
Then Rebecca saw the rope around Sam’s little neck. They had her cinched on a leash. “I count three of them,” Hunter said into his radio mike.
That was when Rebecca noticed the pale creatures in Sam’s shadow. They were using her daughter as a human shield.
A storm of hatred swept her. It sucked the oxygen right out of her. She lowered her binoculars. Breathe. She forced herself.
Hunter sat flexed behind his scope. His finger was on the trigger.
“What are you doing?” said Rebecca.
“I’ve got number one,” Hunter said into his mike. She couldn’t hear the other men reply, but it was easy to guess. Numbers two and three were targeted, too. “On my shot,” said Hunter.
“I order you not to shoot,” she said.
“Quiet,” he said.
“That’s my daughter.”
“And if she was someone else’s daughter?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“I didn’t think so,” said Hunter. “He’s not stupid.”
“What?”
“Clemens.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The one and only thing that can breach our walls is coming at us. Your daughter, not anyone else’s.” Hunter gave it a beat. “This is Clemens’s idea.”
“That’s crazy.”
Hunter didn’t say anything.
“He’s not one of them,” she said. “He can’t be.”
But he was. It was so clear. So what? Rebecca didn’t have time for it. That was Sam down there. “Do not fire that rifle,” she said.
“You want me to let them in?”
Rebecca’s heart crashed against her ribs. She glanced down. The little blond hostage inched closer. “Yes,” she said. “Let them in. There are only three of them. Let them through.” Get that rope off her neck. “Kill them inside.”
“My men are going blind with their own blood. We’re sick and injured. And these three animals are just the tip of the spear. There will be more right behind them.”
But what if Hunter and his marksmen missed? This was going too fast. Slow it down. “Wait,” she said. “Listen to me. Look at me.”
He didn’t lift his eye from the scope. He quit talking. She could feel that rope around her own neck. “Stop,” she said. “Just stop.”
His stillness gathered. He settled into the shot. His lungs stopped.
Rebecca made her move. She leaped at him. Thunder cracked.
Her head seemed to split open, and she thought, God no, he’s shot me.
Hunter fell under her weight. It surprised her. This square block of a man, this warrior, could be toppled by a mere woman?
He shoved her away with a roar. “What have you done?”
Ears ringing, Rebecca clawed back to the window.
Two bodies lay sprawled on the path, twisted together like a large pretzel, both hadal, neither of them Sam. Sam had escaped! Rebecca groped for her binoculars, frantic, thankful, zealous. Alive. Sam was alive.
She was only dimly aware of more flares going up, and guns crackling, and a pale wave streaming along the path and climbing from the marsh and the city, from every direction.
Her binoculars swept back and forth, out of her control. The lenses spared her nothing: the demon horns, the mouths yawing with disembodied cries, the sharpened teeth, the gore whipping through the air. Bullets and shrapnel tore into them. There was no pretty choreography. Just strings cut. Puppets tumbling. A belly flop into the water. Figures pinwheeled into the depths.
A man’s face jumped into focus. He had a familiar red beard. More faces appeared, her action heroes in the flesh. They had crossed to the island and vanished in the pandemonium. Yet here they were, running with the bulls, alive and well.
Then one of the faces slipped sideways. Another’s rubbery expression wrinkled. The man threw away his frown, literally, ripped it from his head. All around him the creatures discarded their masquerade of dead men’s faces.
“Sam,” she screamed. Come in this very minute, young lady. It’s bedtime for you. Something hot kissed her cheek. It kissed her again. Rebecca lowered the binoculars. Hunter was back in position at the sill, utterly studious behind his scope, taking his shots in deadly order. Shells spun through the air and roosted in her hair and clothes.
This was no good. Where is that girl hiding? Rebecca was going to have to go down and find her ballerina.
She shoved open the rocks at the doorway and descended the ramps. She side-stepped the poor men with their bloody eyes. Someone had started to fire a flare through the entrance, but lost his aim, and now it burned bright in the bowels of the building.
Chalky white shapes guttered through the archway. The tip of the spear.
An explosion heated the side of her face. Smoke billowed. Like a volcano erupting.
Rebecca turned left, away from the clash at the gate, into an empty side cell. The loophole stood, half melted, just big enough for her to wriggle outside.
It was like trading a madhouse for a hurricane. The violence—the velocity of hatreds—rushed at her from every side.
Sound returned. Men were screaming. Stones and shrapnel rattled against the wall. Someone fell from high above. Blood slashed her face. She slid, caught her balance, ran on.
“Sam.” Bodies and rocks were jumbled on the path. Things floated in the marsh, like lilies, pure white upon the ferment. More and more flares scooted across the sky. Light was their weapon. Light and more light. It hurt her eyes.
“Sam,” she screamed.
Rebecca was invisible. How else to explain it? She drifted through the battle, untouchable. Beasts from a medieval nightmare surged past her, clattering with their insect language and metal weapons and pieces of ancient armor and helmets. Bullets snicked against the stone. Someone hit a mine. The DZ boys had been busy. Limbs flew. Chopped salad.
A very bright light lit the sky. Rebecca fell. She was pushed. A giant hand slapped her flat. Sleep, she thought.
Wake up.
She climbed to her feet in a wasteland of meat. It was very quiet for a few minutes. Everything lay still around her. Whatever the soldiers had unleashed had leveled the playing field. She alone was left standing. Not for long. More of the creatures were approaching.
She smelled smoke. Her hair was on fire. Rebecca patted it out.
Her shirt fell from her shoulders. Automatically she covered her breasts, and her hands were covered with blood. Her back began to sting, then burn. The pain hit. She staggered, and tried to touch her wounds.
“Rebecca.” She turned at her name. The birthday cake ha
d become a Halloween pumpkin with flares crooking out from its gap-eyed windows. Hunter was up there somewhere. “Come back,” he yelled.
She staggered among the remains. It was like the meat section in the HEB, with racks of ribs, and cutlets, and kidneys on vivid display. One or two sides of beef kept moving. This was nothing for a child to see. “Sam,” she called. “Sam.”
To her left, something wet and hairless slid from the marsh reeds. Five more of them surfaced and followed the first, heading for the citadel. The chop-chop of gunfire resumed.
She came to two bodies piled like dough, the pretzel pair. Now she was getting somewhere. This was where it had all begun. These were the animals that had used her daughter as a shield. Rebecca kicked one. Bastard. She kicked him again, harder, hard as she could. His body rolled away.
Sam, with her golden hair, was hiding underneath.
Rebecca almost screamed. She remembered Hunter aiming and leaping on him and his gun going off. That quickly, she remembered nothing.
“There you are, baby,” she said.
She gathered Sam into her arms and kissed her forehead, what was left of it, and stroked her hair. The two of them rocked back and forth, and shed some happy tears. They hugged. Lots of hugs. Sam was so sleepy.
Shapes streamed past. More explosions. Screams. Jake’s war movies.
“Let’s go home,” said Rebecca. “How does a grilled-cheese sandwich and hot chocolate sound?”
She lifted Sam in her arms and started one way. A rocket streaked down from the highest tower window. Petals of white phosphorous blossomed. Apes thrashed about, howling, on fire. What kind of zoo was this?
Rebecca turned and went the other way. She carried her baby. Sam would like the frogs singing. That meant finding some peace and quiet far away.
Sam got heavy. Rebecca lowered herself to her knees. “Mommy just needs a little rest,” she said.
High overhead, the world lit with a brilliant white flower. Streamers sizzled downward. Thunder rolled through the sky. Rebecca arranged a little bed for them on the ground, with a little pillow of rocks, and fell sound asleep with her golden ballerina.
ARTIFACTS
FOX NEWS
February 6
The Rob O’Ryan True News Hour
O’Ryan: Joining us tonight is author Thomas Liddy. His book Dark Truth: The Burr Administration’s Cover-up has just been released from Dolphin Press and has already ignited a firestorm on Capitol Hill. Welcome, Mr. Liddy.
Liddy: Thank you for having me.
O’Ryan: Let me start by saying, folks, this is a riveting read that proves once again how the invertebrates and left-wing nuts are destroying our country. Now according to your book, Mr. Liddy, the Coltrane rescue brigade, of which you were a member, has already been wiped out.
Liddy: That’s correct. Killed to the last man. And woman.
O’Ryan: Killed by…
Liddy:…by the Chinese army.
O’Ryan: The Chinese army!
Liddy: Yes, sir. Sacrificed to the peace agenda.
O’Ryan: That’s where your title comes in. The “dark truth” is that President Burr and his administration have known about this for weeks, but kept it secret from the American public. Why?
Liddy: I think it’s called kowtowing.
O’Ryan: This is the kind of weakness that tigers prey upon. Especially tigers of the Beijing variety. First they ground a killer sub with nukes on our shore, then they force down one of our planes, then they wipe out a group of American citizens searching for missing children. And our president gives them cover? This is outrageous.
Liddy: I thought the truth should be told.
O’Ryan: Now let’s address these attacks on you. Your book came out two days ago, and already the liberal media has accused you of cowardice, cheap exploitation, warmongering, and of being a self-loathing deadbeat dad. Let’s retire these slanders right now, one by one. First, cowardice. As you candidly state in your book, you turned around at a certain point and left the Coltrane brigade due to, well, you tell us in your own words.
Liddy: I sensed we were walking into a Chinese trap.
O’Ryan: And how did you sense that?
Liddy: I’m a religious man, sir. I believe in the afterlife.
O’Ryan: Go on, sir.
Liddy: My father warned me of the trap.
O’Ryan: Your father who passed away a year ago, is that correct?
Liddy: I heard him distinctly. And if I had not listened to him, I would be dead today.
O’Ryan: The liberals and atheists are having a field day with this. But the fact that you’re alive tonight is proof that you received insider information, so to speak.
Liddy: I think of it as divine intervention, sir.
O’Ryan: Amen to that. Now turning to this accusation that you abandoned your wife and children two years ago…
39
Ike hears the scrape and thud of rocks being lifted aside. Fresh air rushes in. It jolts him. Peace had been at hand. A little more and he could have joined the great stream. But now the angel is dismantling his tomb.
He whispers, “No.”
A powerful hand seizes him by the ankle. As he gets pulled feetfirst from the hole, Ike grabs for the bones. His bones. They had become his.
The angel is brusque. He drags Ike kicking and flailing from his gruesome repose. Ike strikes out with his feet. To his surprise, he has acquired an odd strength. Even faint from starvation, even half-mad, he is able to twist free and lash out at those pitiless eyes. The border between his body and will has been erased. He wonders, am I dreaming? Because he touches the untouchable, actually strikes the angel’s face.
Twice he rushes in. Twice he is flung aside. The angel holds him down.
“Why?” he says.
“You’ve seasoned enough,” the angel tells him. “It’s time you started earning your keep.”
Ike feels liquid on his lips. He fights this resurrection. It was over and done with. But his body is an animal. It drinks the liquid. Whether he likes it or not, his body takes the food.
“I can hear lambs out wandering in the storm, just beyond my reach,” says the angel. He tosses a bundle at Ike. It lands with a clatter. Ike sees the green jade armor of past hunts.
“No more,” he says. He does not attach an honorific. No more Lord, Rinpoche or Teacher. He is renouncing the angel. In doing so, he knows he is renouncing his life. At this level of the game, an ungrateful student deserves nothing but death.
The angel is merciful, or at least solicitous. Licking one palm, he wipes the long hair from his kitten’s eyes. “You have obligations,” says the angel.
Ike is beginning to feel stronger. A great deal stronger. “You have nothing more to teach me.”
“Dear Ike,” says the angel, and his use of Ike’s name—for the first time in many years—signals much. He is renouncing the student who has renounced him, returning Ike to his trivial ego. Also he is acknowledging the enduring circle: what came to him in the beginning was Ike, and what leaves him in the end will be Ike. An obituary, if you will.
“After all our time together,” the angel continues, “you still don’t understand. The issue has never been what I have to teach you, but what you have to teach me. We had a bargain. I would share all that I know, and you would do the same, nothing held back. Isn’t that true?”
“I gave you everything.”
The angel continues as if the conversation were already two or three steps ahead of itself. “Now about this daughter of yours…”
Ike lifts his head.
His surprise betrays him. He had no idea the child would be a girl. Girl or boy, he’d carefully hidden the unborn child from his teacher. If his disrespect does not cost him his life, harboring a secret surely will.
The angel sees it all, Ike’s deceit and daring and fatalism. “Bad dog,” he says. But he does not kill or mutilate Ike. Yet.
The nourishment is burning through Ike’s system. Whatever the angel fed h
im is lighting him on fire. He can’t sit still. He stands. He paces. His heart is racing. He needs to move. To hit something. To fucking destroy it.
“You’re getting angry.” The angel is watching him with clinical calm. “It’s going to heat up a bit for you. Quite a bit. My gift to you. Does it hurt yet?”
Ike leaps at the angel, his nails like talons. The angel brushes him away. “Beautiful Ike, don’t waste your gift on me. It’s your daughter who needs it. Control yourself just a little longer. Soon you won’t be able to.”
“What have you done to her?”
“The question is, what have you done to her? Maybe I ought to be flattered that you threw away your own child to follow me. But in my experience, child sacrifices are such a waste. And they can come back to bite you, Ike. Likethis one. You sacrificed your daughter, but she’s come back to haunt you. To save you from yourself.”
Ike tries to control his breathing. He wants to run. He wants to jump in the air and fly. He wants to kill this thing that can’t be killed. Anything to cool the heat in his brain. “Tell me.”
“Don’t blame her, Ike. Blame yourself. It’s perfectly natural that she would come searching for her father.”
Ike howls. He slams a rock down, and it sparks and breaks. The smell of mineral dust excites him. He contains himself, barely, for the moment. He shortcuts through the information. Clearly his child is in the angel’s capture. Clearly a trade is being offered. Before his rage carries him away, he cuts to the chase. “What do you want?”
“As I said, there are lambs lost in the wilderness, beyond my help. I need you to save them from the monsters.”
Ike has harvested wanderers before. Once they are delivered to the angel, he never sees them again. Some go into stone cages. Some get trained for special duties. Some feed the others.
But he has never heard the angel call his acquisitions lambs. It makes him wary. It pisses him off. This one is going to bite you. “Who?” he snarls. “Where?”
“Girls, roughly the same age as your own,” says the angel. “A couple of dozen still remain, a nice bouquet, plus or minus one or two flowers. There were boys in the beginning, but they didn’t travel well, and were off the point besides. None of them made it, just as well.”
