Brew (Salem's Revenge Book 1)

by David Estes

  A small, dark apartment lobby. Torn flowered wallpaper. A smashed vase with crinkled fake flowers spread out at disjointed angles. A flickering light. Not a happy place.

  “Who’s Tillman Huckle?” Laney whispers behind me. I look back and she’s got Trish’s hand, as if for support, although neither of them look the least bit scared.

  “A friend,” I say, moving toward the stairway.

  “You have friends?” she says, and though I pretend to ignore her, I smile in the dark.

  I pause at the stairwell. There’s a flight of steps leading downward—presumably into a basement or cellar or laundry room—into inky blackness. Above me, I can just make out the outline of the staircase railing, rising many floors. Five, maybe six, levels.

  “Up or down?” Laney says.

  Just then, a light flashes on, illuminating the steps going up.

  “Up,” I say with a smirk.

  “Because the freaky speaker voice person turned the lights on for us?”

  “Yes,” I say, and because some people never change and it’s a good thing they don’t. Tillman Huckle is one of those people.

  We reach the second floor, and immediately, the lights for the third floor steps blink on. “Up again,” I say unnecessarily. I’m fully smiling now, despite everything including the pile of corpses just outside.

  Happiness comes in small measures these days.

  The moment my foot hits the third floor landing, I expect the next set of bulbs to light our way, but instead the steps above us remain mired in shadow. “Guess your friend got bored,” Laney says.

  “No,” I say. “This is our stop.”

  I push through the fire door—a very necessary safety measure in a town that was full of Pyros—and into the third floor hallway. Almost instantly, a series of lights flare to life, one by one, highlighting our path down the corridor. They stop maybe three-quarters of the way down, leaving the remainder of the hallway dark and invisible.

  Paying no attention to whether the others are following me, I stride quickly to the end of the lights and glance left and then right. Two doors. 315 or 316. 315 has a welcome mat covered in dirty footprints. Soo not Tillman Huckle’s style.

  I lean right and knock firmly on 316.

  The door opens into a small, dark apartment. The only light is provided by a wall of screens showing the street outside, the stairwell, and each floor’s hallway. Two of the screens are dark, as if the related cameras have been destroyed. Laney, Trish, and Hex appear on the screen in the dead center, and I can just make out the back of my head, disappearing as I step inside.

  “Password?” a voice says from the right, where there’s a largish couch, a loveseat, and a giant, plush recliner. There’s a flat screen TV on in the corner. A soldier that looks at least part cyborg is blasting away at what appear to be aliens with long, rubbery tentacles as feet and arms. Tufts of unkempt brown hair sprout like grass over the top of the recliner, and the sound of controls being mashed fills my ears.

  “You know it’s me, Huckle,” I say.

  “Password,” he repeats, snorting out a laugh.

  I lower my voice, hoping Laney and her sister won’t hear, and say, “I like big butts and I cannot lie.”

  Tillman doesn’t hold back, letting out a loud guffaw.

  “Really?” Laney says. “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

  “Who are your friends?” Huckle asks, not bothering to turn around to look at us. Click-clack, buttons mashed.

  “Strays,” I say, firing Laney a look that wipes the amusement off her face.

  “What do you mean, strays?” she protests, but I hold up a hand.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it,” I say. “It’s just what witch hunters call surviving humans who are cut off from society, not connected to a larger group.”

  There’s a loud roar as a monstrous blue alien dies, severed tentacles flying like shrapnel. Stage Cleared pops up on the screen, and Tillman Huckle finally rises to his feet. Turns. Smiles. “Welcome to my shop,” he says. Hex scampers to him and accepts Tillman’s offered behind-the-ear scratch.

  “Laney, Trish,” I say, “meet Tillman Huckle.”

  “How do you have electricity?” Laney says.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” Huckle responds. He adds a quick belly rub to his repertoire of ways-to-steal-my-magical-dog-from-me. Ever since I introduced him to Hex, it’s been a mission of his to get him from me. Leaving Hex with his feet still in the air, Huckle lopes awkwardly across the room, nearly tripping twice over his own feet. His greasy brown hair is twice as long and twice as disheveled as the last time I saw him, and his glasses are cracked in half a dozen more places, as evidenced by the thin-cut strips of duct tape holding them together. A result of domestic accidents, most likely.

  When my tall, gangly friend crouches down to look at Trish, he’s still as tall as her. “Trish, right?” he says. She nods. “Aren’t you a quiet girl, so unlike the feisty one.”

  “Quit talking to my sister,” Laney says, pushing between them, her shotgun across her chest.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Tillman asks.

  “You shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you,” Laney says. “There’s nothing wrong with my sister.”

  “Huckle,” I say. “Leave her alone.” He glances at me, rises back to his full height, at least a foot taller than Laney. I crane my neck to whisper in his ear. “She’s traumatized. Hasn’t spoken since she watched her sister kill their parents.”

  Tillman doesn’t react, just keeps looking at Trish, who’s peeking out from behind Laney, just a single eye visible. “Hmm,” Tillman says, playing with the tips of a nasty mustache he definitely didn’t have the last time I saw him.

  “Nice ’stache,” I say.

  “Didn’t you hear? Mos are making a comeback,” Tillman says, looking Laney up and down, from her wide stance to the angles of her arms as she places her hands on her hips to her cock-eyed expression that I realize I’m finally getting used to.

  “You’re thinking of beards,” I say. And then, trying to ease the tension in the room, I change the subject. “Tillman Huckle sells magged-up—I mean, magical—weapons to witch hunters,” I say.

  “Why do you keep calling him by his first and last name?” Laney asks scornfully.

  I sigh. Leave it to her to zone in on the really important issues. “I don’t always. Sometimes I just call him Huckle. But Tillman Huckle sounds right, doesn’t it? I don’t know—it’s just one of those names.”

  “One of a kind,” Laney says, and I can’t tell if she’s being serious.

  “As fascinating as it is to hear you talk about me as if I’m not in the room, I think I’ll go back to my game,” Tillman says, turning away. “Hex, you in?”

  Hex barks appreciatively and follows Tillman to his chair, plopping down beside him. With a few button crunches, the screen once again begins flickering with gratuitous violence.

  “Who is this guy?” Laney says. “Can we trust him?”

  “I can still hear you!” Tillman calls from behind his easy chair. Hex chuffs as if to say Me too!

  Laney and I both ignore them. “I know he’s a little eccentric, but I swear to you, he’s as trustworthy as it gets these days,” I say.

  “If you’re hungry, feel free to dine on a wide protection of Ramen noodles,” Huckle shouts above the boom of a mind-numbing explosion from a rocket he’s just fired from a shoulder-launcher.

  “Don’t you mean, ‘selection’ of Ramen noodles?” Laney says.

  “That’s what I said,” Huckle says.

  “He does that sometimes,” I say. “Uses the wrong word intentionally. He’s really quite smart.”

  There’s skepticism all over Laney’s face, but finally she shrugs. “I guess we don’t have much of a choice, do we?” She wanders over and flops on the couch. I don’t miss the way her shotgun rests on her knees, aimed in Tillman Huckle’s general direction.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Ramen noo
dles never tasted so good.

  I slurp down the last noodle, relishing the addictive taste of artificial chicken flavoring and a heart-attack-inducing level of sodium, considering whether I should go back for a fifth packet.

  Tillman Huckle straps on a vest of dynamite and runs into a nest of scorpion-like aliens, instantly vaporizing them in the explosion. “Nice one,” I say.

  “Isn’t the goal to survive the alien invasion?” Laney asks around a mouthful of curly noodles.

  “Eh, surviving can be so boring sometimes,” Huckle says.

  “You’re odd,” Laney says.

  “Says the shotgun-toting sister of the mute air-drawing pipsqueak,” Huckle says evenly, selecting a new character from a menu screen, a curvy blonde with a machine gun and a sash of ammunition across her chest. Over the last hour I’ve filled him in on everything that’s happened in the last week or so, from the Siren to the beggar—Martin—to the air raid to The End to the Necros, and everything in between. Laney crossed her arms over her chest when I mentioned her sister’s air-drawing, but didn’t contradict me.

  “Don’t talk about my sister,” Laney says, but there’s less fight in her tone. Filling her belly with food seems to have a calming effect on her. I take that down as a mental note.

  “Why? Am I starting to irrigate you?” Tillman says.

  “Don’t you mean—”

  “Yes,” I say. “That’s exactly what he means.” One of my major goals has just become keeping Laney and Huckle from killing each other. Well, more likely, keeping Laney from killing Tillman.

  Giving me a death glare, Laney gets off the couch and sits on the loveseat, as if to send a message by putting distance between us.

  Huckle’s attention remains firmly on his game, where his blonde warrior begins cutting down a robot attack squad in a barrage of automatic fire punctuated by a teeth-chattering grenade blast. Metal arms, legs, and heads go flying all over the screen.

  Laney looks at me as if to say Seriously? and then uses her index finger to make circles around her ear. The message is clear: Your friend is certifiably insane. I shrug one more time.

  “Where’d you come from?” I ask Tillman.

  “I go where the action is,” Tillman says, which doesn’t answer my question at all.

  “I mean, how’d you get here?” I rephrase.

  “Glad to see you still have all six of those throwing stars,” Tillman says, slamming his thumb down on a button. On screen, a wide metal door splits in the center, opening to either side. Hundreds of wolf-like beasts with snake heads charge right toward us, and I realize that video games don’t seem so unrealistic anymore.

  “What happened to the Pyros?” I ask, watching as his buxom character whips out dual swords and begins hacking body parts off the snake-wolves, splattering green blood all over the place.

  “You know, witch hunters and their games,” Huckle says cryptically. I’m beginning to wonder whether my questions are poorly worded. I can’t seem to get a straight answer out of my friend.

  “Witch hunters did that?” Laney says, looking at me with newfound respect.

  “Sort of.”

  I have the sudden urge to rip the video game controller out of Tillman’s hands and chuck it out the window. “Huckle. This is important. We need to know what happened here.”

  Tillman sighs and pauses the game, green blobs of blood and furry body parts frozen amidst two arcs of slashing swords. Finally, he looks at me. “The Pyros moved in a week ago, took over. I’d been here for a couple of weeks, selling weapons to witch hunters passing through. There was a group here, maybe two hundred survivors. They never stood a chance.”

  “Then why aren’t you dead?” Laney asks.

  Tillman laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I’ve been around awhile. I found a place to hide.”

  “Coward,” Laney says.

  “No,” Tillman says, his voice remaining level. “A survivor.”

  “What about the Pyros?” I say, trying to get things back on track. “They moved in and took over, but now they’re all dead.”

  Huckle’s fingers twitch on the controller, as if his addiction to gaming is urging him to hit the unpause button. “They got sloppy. Your friends snuck in, found me, bought some weapons, and then killed the witches. Hence Laney should be thanking me for the pile of Pyro corpses out front. Without my weapons things might’ve gone very differently.”

  “You’re a saint,” Laney mutters.

  “My friends?” I say, my lip turning up slightly.

  “The group of witch hunters you were talking about earlier. You know, The End.”

  Without thinking, I stand, subconsciously raising a hand to my forehead, which I suddenly realize is pounding with a headache.

  Despite the missiles that destroyed Waynesburg, The End is alive and doing what they do best: killing.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “And this is a brand new item—a Glock with bullets formed from cursed superheated steel.” When Tillman Huckle talks about magic weapons, his eyes light up the same way they do when he talks about video games.

  “I’ll take one of those,” Laney says, reaching for the big weapon.

  “Not so fast,” Huckle says, pulling it away. “I require payment in advance of all sales.”

  “What happened to trying before buying?” Laney says.

  “What happened to you only going with me as far as the Necros’ stronghold and then going our separate ways?” I ask.

  Laney punches me lightly in the shoulder. “Jury’s still out on that one,” she says. “But regardless, I could use a weapon like this to protect me and my sister.”

  Huckle’s clutching the gun to his chest like an overprotective mother with her baby.

  “Tillman Huckle. Give it to her. She’s not going to steal it.”

  He squints an eye as if he finds that hard to believe, but hands the gun over, barrel first. Laney grabs it, spins it around, and points it square at Huckle’s chest. “Any cursed bullets in this thing?” she asks, peering down the sight.

  “What do I look like, an amateur?” Huckle says.

  Laney plays with the gun for a minute and then says, “Where’d you get all these weapons anyway? I’m guessing the witches don’t just make them and then hand them over.”

  “Trade secrets,” Tillman says obscurely.

  “Whatever,” Laney says, testing the weight of the gun in her hand.

  “There’s no way you can afford a weapon like that,” Huckle says.

  “Not even for a friend?” I say.

  “She’s not ‘a friend,’” Tillman retorts, his fingers forming air quotes. I swear his glasses have a new strip of duct tape from yesterday. “If you want the gun, you’ll have to pay up.”

  “We don’t have any money,” Laney says.

  “Money?” Tillman laughs. “Money is worthless. Trading is not.”

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “I’d accept a certain four-legged beast whose name rhymes with sex,” Huckle says.

  “Gross,” Laney says, as if just hearing that word roll off of Huckle’s tongue is more disgusting than trudging through a puddle of vomit.

  “Why do you want Hex?” I ask.

  “Companionship,” Huckle says. “All my other friends just end up dying.”

  I’m about to respond, but Trish starts air-drawing. “Trish, stop it,” Laney commands, but it only makes her sister form the letters faster.

  “Death…” I start to read, but then Laney grabs Trish’s hand.

  “No,” she says. “No more.”

  Why is she so unwilling to explore her sister’s apparent gift, if that’s what it is? At the very least, we need to know what it means. Whether it’s real or just the random ambiguity of a child still in shock.

  “Let her finish,” I say, taking hold of Laney’s wrist and trying to pull her away.

  “Don’t touch me, Carter,” Laney says, her eyes blazing. She’s still got the Glock in the other hand and
I’m tempted to reconfirm with Huckle that it’s not loaded.

  “What are you scared of?” I say.

  “Nothing,” she says, but I can see the fire in her eyes die just a little, replaced by something resembling anxiety.

  Even as we stare at each other, we both seem to realize at the same time that Trish is now drawing with her other hand. “Cometh,” Tillman says. “Death cometh.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Trish’s finger slashes at the air, moving with more vigor than I’ve ever seen from the small girl. Her blue eyes are beaming with intensity and there’s a determined line to her jaw and pursed lips. She looks a little scary, if I’m being honest.

  And she’s drawing the same message one more time, as if once wasn’t enough.

  D.E.A.T.

  Blood is throbbing in my head, pulsating in my temple, hot and fierce.

  H.

  “Death,” I find myself murmuring aloud.

  “C. O. M. E. T. H.”

  I grit my teeth and hope for a few more words, something to change the message to a phrase less grim and horrible, but the nine-year-old’s slender hand drops back to her side.

  “Death cometh,” I repeat, my voice nothing more than a whisper. “From where?”

  Her hand lifts once more and she points to the ceiling—but no, that can’t be it.

  She’s pointing to the sky.

  “Flying witches,” Laney says, quickly getting up to speed.

  “Destroyers? Maybe…” I say, but it doesn’t sound right and Trish is already shaking her head. An attack from the sky. Something overhead. Something that brings only death. Icicles lance down my spine and my legs freeze in blocks of ice, because I realize there’s only one answer out of a million that makes sense:

  Missiles.

  “We’ve got to go, now!” I say frantically, grabbing Trish’s hand and pulling her toward the door. When Laney and Huckle just stare at me, I yell, “NOW!” which Hex punctuates with a loud “WOOF!”

  Laney’s eyes widen but she moves, even grabbing Huckle by the elbow and hauling him forward. She looks like an elf trying to move a lumbering giant, but, despite the surprise plastered on his face, he allows himself to be dragged toward the door.