Underworld Earth

by Nicholas Gagnier

  Searching for any sign of my friend who once sacrificed himself on our journey through the afterlife, I hope freeing Nathan will buy Samantha’s help in liberating Haven—something I cannot do by myself. Victor and Sydney’s deaths will certainly mean casualties, in which her son will be an unfortunate victim.

  That moment of cooperation is all I require. With Haven freed, that only leaves Ramona Knox, and a seventh whose name I have not been made privy to.

  I despise this level of premeditation.

  Most children in the former township of Joseph City, Arizona, grip lethal weapons which cannot harm me but certainly Samantha’s son, given cause. Their clothes are filthy, many in dire need of bathing. I have no desire to fight children, and remain hidden, focusing on the search for Nathan.

  But I am not Death nor Nephalim and was not granted all-seeing knowledge. Were it not for Tim feeding me information, I would be just as much in the dark as Samantha Wallace. That leaves instinct as my only tool. Joseph City had a population of less than fifteen hundred people. Based on some brief reconnaissance, the kids in charge congregate in actual houses, keeping prisoners in the RV park. They wouldn’t give a potential threat access to guns and communal resources kept in the main row of buildings.

  Warping forward, my next jump is interrupted by a force of light. Its sudden appearance kills momentum, sending me tumbling onto my backside between rows of trailer homes as associated light fades from the being’s features.

  “What are you doing, Phoenix?”

  The faint glow surrounding the Nephalim seems more luminous than usual. Climbing to my feet, his expression is grim.

  “What does it look like?”

  I brush myself off as Gabriel circles me on the dirt road dividing one mobile home from another.

  “Looks to me like saving another target, instead of killing them.”

  “Don’t you have better things to do? I’m doing what you asked.”

  “Update me, then.”

  “Gabriel—”

  The Nephalim scowls back.

  “Unless you want to be carted off to Atlas to be tried, Phoenix, I suggest you keep me in the loop.”

  I don’t have time for this.

  “You ever play chess?” I ask. “My dad used to play with me. He wanted to teach my brother, but... Charlie had no interest in it. So, he taught me instead. Imagine that. I was only afforded my father’s affection because his oldest son didn’t see him as the hero I did.”

  “What’s your point, Harper?”

  “In chess, you don’t just go in and kill the king and queen at all costs. Even if you scatter opposing pawns far enough around the board, you’re still fending off knights and bishops. Avoid them by some miracle, you’re still gonna get killed off by a damn rook. Instead, you line up your targets, facing one way. Draw off their numbers, but make sure they won’t come up on you from behind, either.”

  There is no more humoring him. I have my stars aligned, and an overbearing angel is not going to stand in my way.

  After this, I will be free of him forever.

  “Very well,” he says, “I must assume there is some method to your madness. I have reason to suspect you know where Death is, and you will protect him if it is in your interest. But watch your back, Phoenix. Don’t let me catch you helping him.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Gabriel smirks. There is no dramatic return this time, no calling him back; no taunts or jabs, nor a condescending tone to accompany them. When he has disappeared between trailer homes, glow trailing behind him, I can finally exhale.

  Fucking angels.

  Instinct proves right, and I find Nathan Wallace bound and gagged to a chair inside a dark trailer home. The locket flares as I draw closer, sensing his presence. I have never been sure what dictates the limits of its powers; suffice to say, the little star constantly manages to surprise me.

  His bruised face is rolled to the side and he looks much younger, but it is still the same Nathan Wallace I met fifteen years ago—who should, by all rights, not be alive.

  “Nathan?” I whisper, kneeling in front of him. His hands and chest are bound to the chair in duct tape and he groans as I repeat his name. “Nathan, wake up.”

  The boy’s eyes flutter open, settling on me.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  As is the case with everyone else, he shakes his head. I am a stranger to him, our former camaraderie wiped from existence.

  If I don’t get to give up, he once told me, neither do you.

  He doesn’t deserve this.

  “Nathan? My name is Harper. We’re going to leave this place now, okay?”

  We will go home, and we will take care of all those things we left unfinished.

  If the Atlas is going to make me kill this kid, it will be in a far quicker, more painless manner. I look for anything to cut his binds—a knife, broken glass—I will free him with my bare hands if necessary. But the locket senses desperation and warms my hands with light that pulls the tape apart like a hot knife through butter. Rags of silver adhesive fall at Nathan’s feet. While he finds a shaky balance, I can only stare at my hands in awe.

  How powerful is this thing?

  When my eyes meet Nathan’s, his stare pierces me, as if caught in perpetual deja vu.

  I have no time for his endless questions.

  “Are you ready to get out of here?” I ask to his nod as the locket flares up again. “We’re going to have to fight our way out.”

  Outside, two preteens patrol the area, brandishing rifles stolen from their dead parents’ gun cabinets. Peeking between a crack in the trailer door, I venture out first, using hand signals to keep quiet and to prevent Nathan from straying into their line of vision. Once their backs are to us, I give him permission to follow close behind. Unaware that nobody else can see me, he creeps along the same wall of trailers, remaining on my heels as I stop at intersections, glancing both ways.

  A kid no older than seven is stationed by a house adjacent to the RV park. Perched on a wooden stool directly under a malfunctioning streetlight, he only has a handgun, likely because the older kids don’t trust him with a rifle.

  “I’ll distract him,” I tell Nathan. “You disarm him and take his gun.”

  Not wanting to draw attention to my status as a celestial being, I walk out in front of the kid, rather than blink; the locket concealing me until I seamlessly manifest in front of him.

  “Hi, sweetheart. Are you okay out here?”

  The kid’s eyes widen at the sight of me. Sharing the same look as a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he raises the revolver.

  “You’re not supposed to be here! Kids only! Don’t make me call Cori, okay? I don’t want to get in trouble, miss!”

  “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you, honey. I’m just passing through, okay? Saw you out here, all alone. Got worried for you.”

  “We’re fine,” the young boy says. “Ain’t supposed to be adults here, though!”

  An arm around the kid’s neck preempts my response. It tightens, and the young boy’s gun falls from his hand as he struggles against Nathan’s larger body, restraining him in a sleeper hold. Unfortunately, the boy was playing with the safety as he sat on the stool, and the gun goes off as it hits the ground.

  Suddenly, the entire town is alerted to our presence. Telling Nathan to grab the dropped weapon and follow me, voices roused from sleep yell at each other in juvenile tones, converging on the spot their young subordinate guarded.

  “Let’s go this way!” Nathan says, cutting left. The voices behind us fall quiet, realizing their friend’s assailants are loose inside the compound. Homes and small shops blur together as we pass them. No need for oxygen, it would be too easy to get ahead of Nathan. His face is drenched with sweltering humidity as feet pound the road, maneuvering back toward where I left Samantha.

  Taking cover on the side of a peeling house, my skin is comparably cool, and I don’t pant for br
eath. Hunting parties call out commands and acknowledgements, closing in on us from different directions.

  “Your mom is on the ridge up there, waiting for us!” I say, funneling his gaze to the small mountain. “When I give the word, you make your break for it. Okay?”

  Pulling him to the next house, I hug him. His hand lightly touches my shoulder, aware as I am how weird this is.

  We have so much history, even if he remembers none of it.

  “Be safe,” I say, sniffling as I separate from him. “I’ll try to distract them. Do you still have the gun?”

  He nods, and I tell him to go now, glancing up to the ridge Samantha is supposedly still behind. Nathan jogs out of the town toward reuniting with his mother. As he draws closer, I hear his name called and I see Samantha scrambling down the elevation. Night has completely befallen the desert around Younglight, but my heart finds momentary joy in the fact that they will be reunited for a short time.

  But changing course to look for the distraction I promised Nathan, several rounds of automatic gunfire pierce the air about the town.

  “Stop right there!”

  The scream is obscured by buildings, and I blink forward to get a better look. Samantha’s back faces the northern expanse as Nathan’s escape past Younglight’s limits is halted by a party from the south, completely outnumbering them.

  Shit.

  Vaulting towards the town’s eastern end, a series of jumps places me directly behind the hunting party. No consideration is given to line-of-sight, because none will see me anyway. Running a headcount as their leader—a dark-skinned teenage girl with dreadlocks—approaches Nathan, she appears more amused than dismayed by the escape attempt.

  “Clever display!” she roars. “Shows we need to beef up our security, so thanks for pointing that out! Guess you can’t just tie someone up anymore, and count on them staying put! People right outside the door, but they still get away!”

  Her entourage is composed of several children much younger than her. The arid climate is much cooler at night, and they huddle together over sparse vegetation, surrounding their life of inhospitable sand and dust.

  “I just want to take my son and go,” Samantha says to the children with deadly assault weapons trained on her. Her voice wavers but she does not show them fear. “We just want to leave!”

  The girl in charge scoffs, looking to Nathan.

  “This your mommy? Need her to come and save your lily ass?”

  “She’s telling the truth, Cori,” Nathan protests. She circles around him, clutching the rifle in front of her face which is uncomfortably close to Nathan’s. “Just let us go, okay? We’ll never say a word about this place.”

  Cori, who can’t be a day over sixteen, chuckles. It is a terrible sound on a young lady. She should be in school, not playing outlaws with her peers.

  “Know what happened to my mommy, little boy?” she snarls at him. “She got so sick, shitting herself every time she coughed. Asked me to put her out of her misery, so I did.”

  “Listen,” Sam pants, “Cori, is it?”

  “That’s right, bitch! With an I too, so don’t be pulling none of this cutesy shit with a Y, or we’re gonna have problems!”

  “Great. Well? As I’m sure you know, this is...a great place. So wonderful that you and your friends have gotten together, made a secret club—”

  “Secret club?” one of Cori’s male companions asks.

  “What is this lady smoking, yo?” another says.

  “Fucking bullshit,” complains a third.

  “But, as an adult in this very... precarious conversation,” Samantha continues, inching the rest of the way down the hill to join Nathan, “I’m just... going to take my son here, and get out of your hair! Okay? So, thank you ... so much for saving him, and I hope you kids have a fun party!”

  Sam pushes Nathan, telling him to start walking. But Cori is not placated and cocks her rifle. A stream of bullets escapes the muzzle, burying themselves in the Earth at their feet. Both mother and son recoil at the warning and stop, hands above their heads.

  “You’re not going anywhere, either of you!”

  This is my opportunity. With the girl’s back turned, I can give Samantha and Nathan the upper hand. The locket revs up, just as my entire essence sets ablaze. Before Cori and her cohorts are aware of fire extending from my edges, it is over them. A blanket of orange extends over their head, obscuring the starlit sky as they scurry away from intense heat, yelling over each other.

  “What was that?”

  “Something is on fire!”

  “No, you idiot! That’s just a light!”

  The group climbs back to their feet, glancing in all directions for whatever that was. It came out of nowhere, after all, and could still lurk. Turning heads to assume their former upper hand, Samantha Wallace cocks one of the rifles that came up for grabs as they were sent panicking groundside.

  “Now,” she says, “whatever role you all had in saving my son’s life, I’m grateful for. But he also has a face full of bruises I can’t explain. I’m not going to ask too many hard questions if you’ll all just move out of the fucking way. If you don’t, I’m going to make some tough connections real fast.”

  Cori signals her clan to inch away from them. Observing each for a rogue actor—someone who might take subtle orders from the girl in charge, I only notice one of the boys fumble a firecracker in his hand. Cori has no wish to die and does not risk the lives of her friends to concoct any underhanded attack I might be expecting.

  We have won Nathan’s freedom, and can move on to closing the Breach for good. Breathing relief, Samantha and Nathan turn to leave Younglight behind them. Turning my back, I fail to observe the boy chuck the firecracker at the ground. He may do it to mess with Nathan’s mother, or out of boredom—I doubt Cori instructed anything of the sort.

  I don’t see the miniature explosive pulse outward but hear it. It draws my attention back to Cori’s group as Samantha—whose years of training by a Special Forces soldier’s hand are back in play, rusty as instincts may be—treats it as a gun firing. Spinning to protect Nathan, the barrel of her rifle unleashes a streak of bullets towards them in response. Failing to realizing children don’t adhere to walking in straight lines, her son’s criss-crossed strolling wanders right into Samantha’s line of fire. The members of Cori’s group scream and duck as the rifle’s end falls quiet, and pat themselves down to ensure none were hit.

  It takes a second to fully understand the consequences of that reaction; Nathan looking down at a red blotch, spreading through the abdominal seam of his shirt. He touches it, pulling a soaked hand away, looking up to show a darkened palm to his astonished mother. He collapses sideways, Samantha catches him, eyes welling with the denial of her deed, and the mistake she can never undo.

  “No,” she grunts, lowering her child to the ground. “No! Nathan!”

  The ability to form words from his mouth is lost. Blood fills his belly, overwhelming his diaphragm. He convulses against Samantha as she supports him on the crook of her elbow, screaming his name as eyes roll into the back of Nathan’s head.

  The group of children who threatened him fall uniformly quiet, jaws hanging in abject shock. Invisible to all of them, I am thankful none see my own heart sink down my sleeve.

  All I can do is watch Samantha cradle his body behind a town in the desert, only a cold sky of stars left to console her.

  Samantha

  “Nathan!”

  The seconds between my eleven-year-old touching his abdomen and collapsing to the ground are the worst combination of sight, sound—for the sheer lack of it—and touch I have ever felt.

  Dried saliva coalesces at the back of my throat which burns… Tasting of what I can only assume is guilt. Nathan’s central mass seizes over my arms. I guide tensing shoulder blades, rigid under my palm. Settling with him on my knees, blood pours from his mouth where words should emerge. To my ears, the world is a wind tunnel, and I wouldn’t hear a damn sound
anyway.

  Everything moves in slow motion. I might glance up to see the humbled group of child soldiers who just watched karma swing for them and miss, but don’t dwell.

  And then, suddenly as the slow-moving, sensory-deprived filter encircled me, it withdraws. All the sights and sounds pour in, overloading sense with bottlenecked stimuli.

  “Nathan!”

  Snapping out of my daze, my hands try staunching a steady exodus of blood from my son’s stomach. Joined by Harper, carrying rags from a nearby store, Cori eyes her suspiciously, but neither of us pay her mind.

  “Here!” Harper says, kneeling beside us, “This was all I could find.”

  I thumb the stack in half, setting the other part on the ground. Removing my arm from under Nathan’s back, I use the half in my blood-soaked hands to elevate his head and press the other rags against the bullet in his belly. He tries mouthing words, but I tell him to save his energy.

  “Nathan! It’s Mom. You’re gonna be okay. Okay? Try not to speak. Don’t move.”

  Locking eyes with the angel, I know it’s not good. But I can’t admit that to myself. Because then I would have to admit other, more heinous things.

  I shot my own son.

  Nathan shivers against the hard ground, stained red beneath him. His face is pale as my hands shake, trying to contain blood in the rags, but there is too much.

  “Samantha.”

  I don’t want to hear it.

  “He’s not going to make it.”

  “Yes, he is!”

  The trio of syllables from my throat leave it raw with intensity. The other children have become too disturbed at one of their peers dying, and Cori tells them to disperse. They drift back to the town without a word, leaving us alone to witness my baby boy’s end. He winces with a pool of blood spilling over his teeth, and I am so fucking sorry.

  “Nathan! Stay with me! Stay with me, please!”

  But his eyes draw nothing in them, head falling to the side. The full weight of my mistake settles in, paralyzing any ability or intention to help myself. Harper solemnly climbs to her feet, touching my shoulder. I release the rags over Nathan’s bullet wound. Some of them fall to the ground, but the bottom layers use his essence as adhesive, sticking to his skin.