Dead Sky

by Weston Ochse

  Was it his touch?

  Could he affect regular people?

  The man had grabbed his head. Had Boy Scout given him an immediate headache—a migraine, perhaps?

  Could he take their life force like he’d done the whale?

  Boy Scout was amazed at his newfound ability and held on until he felt immense pain from behind him. He pulled his hands free. He tried to spin, but was unable. Instead, he reached around and felt an astral arm working at the back of his head. He grabbed the arm and managed to pull it away. Now he did turn, and saw another astral person hovering near him.

  “Boy Scout.”

  And it knew his name.

  “You’ve fed the beast.”

  Boy Scout glanced to where the yazata sat, marking the location of his physical body, then back to the figure floating close by.

  “I had no choice. It took control.”

  “I told you to feed it the souls of travelers. I told you to make sure it had sustenance so this very thing wouldn’t happen.”

  Faood. And he was astral traveling.

  “How did you—”

  “Do you think you’re the only one capable of astral projecting? What you did reverberated across the entire astral continuum.”

  “You mean the whale. I didn’t do that. The yazata did.”

  “You think it was only one? You sucked the life force out of forty-six whales.”

  “Forty-six? That... can’t be.” Had it really happened? Had he really participated in the murder of so many whales? A great sadness threatened to overwhelm him.

  “One whale would not have caused the quake that forty-six did. I saw their bodies floating in the Pacific, darker than the water, what had been bright life snuffed out by your excessiveness. The scene was a veritable astral tourist attraction for a while. All sorts of travelers followed the ripples to the source and saw what you did.”

  Boy Scout could picture it all—cetacean after cetacean, meant to live for half a century or more, now floating dead and rotting, life extinguished because of his inability to control the hunger of the beast within him. He glared at the yazata and could not wait to be rid of it.

  “What you did is a stain upon your soul, Boy Scout.”

  He couldn’t help but say, “But it wasn’t me.”

  “You still don’t get it. The yazata is you. You are the yazata.”

  Boy Scout fumed at the idea. He was no hunter. The idea of killing something or someone who didn’t pose a threat was anathema to his world view. Never would he even consider it, so to be accused of such a thing, to be an accomplice to such an event, made him physically and spiritually ill. But he didn’t have time to mourn. He had a more immediate threat to deal with. “Call your men off,” he said.

  “No can do. They want their pound of flesh.”

  “And you want me.”

  Faood paused, then said, “Not until you did what you did. Now that it’s self-realized, it can’t be used for what we need. But we can study it. We can use it to further our means. Without your spirit attached to your body it makes what we want to do far easier.”

  “You intend to kill me for that?” Boy Scout said, pointing at the yazata.

  “Kill is the wrong word. Release you from your physical body would be a more appropriate descriptor.”

  “And then you’re going to tame the yazata,” Boy Scout said.

  “There’s no taming it once it knows what it is. It’s made you into a monster. Why it hasn’t consumed you already is a mystery.” Faood moved closer. “If you let me remove the silver cord then I will call my men off. You can float into the dark sun and see what’s on the other side.”

  “Or burn up.”

  “Do you think so? I believe it’s a gateway to somewhere else.”

  “Then feel free to investigate. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “But your team—how many are left who haven’t been killed because of you?” Faood stared at the surface of the material plain. “Preacher’s Daughter? McQueen? And I see another—do you think three against twelve are good odds? Come now. Let me free you from your problems and your men will go unharmed.”

  “I thought yours wanted their pound of flesh and you can’t stop them.”

  “Maybe I haven’t tried hard enough.”

  The proposition was fair. One life for three. Boy Scout had had enough of death. He’d seen too many of those who had entrusted their lives to him die. And for what? So some VIP could make a meeting? So a convoy could make it down a road? So an HVT could sit in a cell and be badgered with questions from an FBI Special Agent? As capricious as the offer sounded, maybe that was his alternative. Maybe this way he could guarantee the lives of the few who remained.

  But it wasn’t a hundred percent. Even Faood didn’t seem to be convinced he could talk the dervishes out of attacking. And if it wasn’t a hundred percent, then he’d be sacrificing himself for nothing.

  “I considered your offer, Faood. I really did. But I think I’ll pass.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  Faood surged towards Boy Scout at impossible speed, grabbing him and propelling him across the astral plane so fast that the life forces in the cities blurred beneath him. Faood had completely taken him by surprise. Boy Scout struggled to remove the man’s astral hands from around him, but as soon as he’d move one, Faood would grasp with another. Remembering the battle with the Berber, Boy Scout invented more arms to push Faood away but Faood was faster at growing more and more arms as well. Soon each of them had a dozen appendages fighting with one other, but Faood always uncannily maintained the upper hand.

  “Clever. How did you learn to do this so fast?” Faood asked.

  “I had advanced training,” Boy Scout said, thinking of Sister Renee and the days she’d been locked out of her body, her only freedom to explore and understand the astral plane.

  “I thought this would be easier. Still, I’ve been doing this for over a hundred years,” Faood said. “Fighting you is like fighting a child.”

  Worry crept into Boy Scout’s desperate attempts to be free. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Kilauea volcano in Hawaii. One of the only things that can destroy an astral body is fire from the earth. Not manmade fire, but god-made fire. The fire of creation.”

  They were over complete darkness now which could only mean the Pacific Ocean.

  Boy Scout’s efforts increased as he fought to be free from Faood. To die in a volcano while in astral form wasn’t in the cards. He had to find a way to get free of the mad dervish, but Faood was so strong, so fast. Boy Scout brought his legs up and wrapped them around Faood’s astral hips, then pressed, using a jujitsu move he’d learned long ago. Sure enough, Faood lost his grip.

  But only for a moment.

  Before Boy Scout could do anything, Faood grabbed his feet and continued propelling him towards astral Hawaii.

  Boy Scout pulled himself into a ball and kicked hard.

  Again, Faood lost his grip.

  Boy Scout took that moment to scramble away and head for what he thought was east, back to the mainland.

  But Faood was impossibly faster. This time he grabbed Boy Scout by the front of his legs and changed directions, sending them back to their original trajectory. But he’d made a mistake. Faood’s head was literally near Boy Scout’s crotch, and Boy Scout reached down to the back of the dervish’s head and grasped the silver cord that protruded. He pulled and Faood screamed. But it wasn’t coming loose. He pulled harder and Faood tried to slap his hands away.

  Boy Scout saw a brightening from behind his head and instinctively knew what it was. They’d traveled so fast so soon. Such was Faood’s power. How could he ever hope to win this fight?

  Boy Scout wrenched at the cord and Faood screamed louder.

  They stopped suddenly.

  Faood let go of Boy Scout’s legs.

  “I’m a hundred years stronger than you. You might cause me temporary pain, but you cannot possibly win the day.”r />
  Then, like an adult to a misbehaving child, Faood grabbed Boy Scout’s wrists and easily pulled them off the silver cord. Then he latched onto Boy Scout’s feet, swung him around three times, and released him.

  Boy Scout hurtled towards the volcano, the visage of an impossibly white pit of light tumbling as he somersaulted in the astral plane. He thought of McQueen and Preacher’s Daughter. He thought about Charlene. He thought of the yazata that had such immense power. To die like this would be... Then he remembered something Faood had said. You still don’t get it. The yazatais you. You are the yazata.

  And he stopped on a dime mere meters from the pool of light—the fire of creation.

  He surged across the empty space to Faood and grabbed him.

  “I am ten thousand years stronger than you.”

  He willed himself back to his material body and moved instantaneously there. One moment he was hovering over a Hawaiian volcano the next he was hovering over an RV in Death Valley, and he had pulled Faood with him.

  “How can you—?”

  This close, Boy Scout could make out Faood’s features.

  Faood’s worry.

  Faood’s fear.

  “You told me. I am the yazata. I consumed the life forces of forty-six whales. I have their power. You are nothing to me.”

  And then he hurled Faood into the yazata, feeding the beast the enmity of his species.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Operation Boom Boom

  BOY SCOUT DIDN’T waste a moment on his astral victory. Instead, with his newfound power he blipped to the battle, which was just beginning. Like a god, he stared down at the scene, making sense of it in mere seconds. Where he’d thought his own astral battle had taken time, the events beneath him in the material plane were still unfolding. It was as though he was using a night vision device that rendered everything alive in stark, blurry white.

  The three vehicles were near the RV now, moving slowly, side by side. Half their occupants were dispersed on the ground, running beside the vehicles.

  Two people were still in the RV. He imagined the one in the front was Charlene. At least she’d know when to duck, if necessary.

  The figure in the shadowy lee of the RV was either McQueen or Preacher’s Daughter. Whichever it was, the other was offset by forty-five degrees from the front of the RV and about a hundred meters. Although there was no way Boy Scout could be sure of the reason for that position, if it’d been him, he’d have used it as a sniper’s roost.

  Remembering what he’d done earlier, Boy Scout decided to see what he could do to help the others. He chose the vehicle in the middle and blipped to it. He shoved his hand into the face of the driver. The vehicle twisted to the right, colliding with the other vehicle. Electric energy shot up his arm as images buzzed through his consciousness. He started to contemplate the morality of his actions and whether or not he should be using his astral abilities like this, but dismissed the thought immediately. The enemy was presenting an overwhelming force and he needed to use any means necessary to save his team.

  He blipped to the driver in the left vehicle, who was still trying to go in a straight line, and shoved his hand into his face with the same reaction.

  Boy Scout felt a sort of shaking, as if the universe were going to tear itself apart.

  Then again.

  He felt pieces of himself flaking away, as if something was happening to his essence.

  Then Charlene was leaning over him and screaming into his face, “WAKE UP!”

  Groggy from the instantaneous transformation back to the material plane, he blinked and brought a hand to his head. He quickly closed his chakras.

  Then he heard it outside. Explosion after explosion.

  “What’s happening?” Each word took effort.

  She stood up straight and crossed her arms. “There. I did what I came to do.”

  He managed to sit up. “What are you talking about?”

  She stood in the doorway to the room, arms crossed, leaning against the frame. “Explosions are like volcanoes. The stuff of creation. Even in astral form you can’t survive.”

  Boy Scout climbed shakily to his feet and stumbled to the window, where he spied all three vehicles smoking and on fire. The left-most vehicle was all but obliterated—the place he’d been moments before.

  “I would have been killed,” he said, both as a statement and a question.

  She nodded. “Yes, you would have ceased to exist.”

  He spun back to her even as gunfire opened up from both sides.

  His eyes narrowed as he spoke. “Why did you help me? I thought you wanted us to be agents of action. I thought you weren’t going to help any of us. All the we can’t change the future crap you spouted.”

  She made a face like there was a foul smell. “Faood would have changed the future. I can’t have that.”

  “What? How?” The battle was distracting, but he wanted—no, needed to hear what she had to say. A single shot sounded louder than the others and came in metronomic intervals of three seconds. That had to be McQueen with the sniper rifle. “Explain.”

  “It’ll take too long. Go help your friends. Go help McQueen.”

  He started to move, then his eyes widened. McQueen. She’d given him a warning.

  Rounds raked the side of the RV, several piercing the metal and zipping through. He held an arm over his face and hit the door running, grabbing the Walther off the couch as he went.

  The door slammed open.

  The light was fading and the temperature was dropping. Twilight had arrived rather quickly.

  Preacher’s Daughter knelt beside the steps leading into the RV, holding an HK 416, sighting down the barrel and firing in three round bursts. “We were flanked,” she snarled.

  Two dervishes who had been running towards them went down.

  She stood and shot each of them in the back twice for good measure.

  “I thought you were supposed to be inside so you didn’t get blown up,” she said.

  Gunfire came from the other side of the RV, but now none of it was pointed towards them.

  Boy Scout ignored her and snatched the rifle away from her. He ran to the back of the RV, brought the rifle up, and cornered the back with the barrel. He saw the three smoking vehicles, which looked like they’d been razors. Several dark figures lay dead or dying on the ground beside them. He also saw five more low crawling towards McQueen’s position, which was slightly higher than theirs by about five feet.

  What made the other man’s roost the best place to fire from also made it vulnerable for what the dervishes were doing. They were already within ten meters of the position, and in order for McQueen to get an effective shot, he’d have to show his head. He tried several times, but each time, the dervishes laid down fire. Working in concert as they were, McQueen would soon fall.

  Boy Scout brought his rifle up and began to fire single shots into the enemies.

  He caught one, then another, but missed twice more. Then the bolt locked to the rear.

  “Magazine,” he yelled.

  “Can’t—we’re out,” she yelled back. “Hold on.”

  “I can’t hold on,” he whispered.

  He dropped the rifle, pulled out his pistol and ran for the nearest dead body. He fired his pistol as he ran, but knew he had zero chance of hitting the dervishes. He just wanted their attention.

  Ten meters out from the nearest dead dervish, he saw one of the dervishes who was advancing on McQueen turn and fire in his direction. Boy Scout felt the passage of the bullet as it zinged by his ear. He dove, hoping that the impact wouldn’t set off his suicide vest. It didn’t, so he crawled furiously for the weapon he’d seen peeking from beneath the body.

  A fucking Uzi.

  Almost completely worthless, yet, using the body as a base, he laid the barrel over the dead man’s back and pressed the trigger. The weapon buzzed to life, sending thumb-sized 9mm rounds in a straight line, the shots eating up the sand. He used the line as an a
iming device and drew it right to his target who pitched backwards when the miraculous final round smacked him in the face.

  Boy Scout tossed the Uzi aside, surged to his feet and ran to the next dead dervish.

  This one had an Uzi as well, but when he tried to replicate his trick, he discovered the weapon was empty.

  He dropped it aside and ran to the next body. This one also had an Uzi. It was like they’d gotten their TTPs from binge watching Miami Vice. He would have grabbed the weapon, but Boy Scout could see it was empty, bolt locked back to the rear.

  He heard screaming from the other side of the RV as Preacher’s Daughter sprinted towards McQueen’s position. She had picked up two AR15s from dead dervishes and she fired one on the run.

  The last two dervishes on the ground turned toward her and fired, but she kept coming.

  Now that she had the attention of all the dervishes, McQueen took the moment to stand in his roost and pulled his pistol.

  He was about to fire when two things happened.

  Preacher’s Daughter took two rounds in the chest and she fell, her momentum causing her to pull the trigger and send a round into the slim space between the lower part of McQueen’s body armor and his belt. He fell backwards without a sound.

  Both Preacher’s Daughter and Boy Scout yelled, “No!”

  She climbed to her feet. The rounds had caught her high on her body armor. She’d have a bruise, but live.

  One dervish was still alive. For some reason he also stood, looking at his three targets. And fuck it all if he didn’t try to dance.

  Preacher’s Daughter butt-stroked him for his efforts and he went down, eyes rolling into the back of his head. She fell to her knees beside McQueen about three seconds before Boy Scout arrived and did the same.