Brew (Salem's Revenge Book 1)

by David Estes

Without missing a beat, Mr. Jackson says, “Yes.”

  I let out a sarcastic scoff.

  “No, I’m serious,” he says. “To help our cause, I’d do almost anything. But I understand your mother’s reluctance. She probably wanted to be with your father—on the other side.”

  “I’m sorry,” Laney says, not sounding sorry at all, “but I don’t know anyone who would want to come back like a zombie. Not even a freak like you.”

  “She’s not a zombie,” Mr. Jackson says, sounding annoyingly patient. “She’s a Reanimate. And her new life will help the world find peace once more.”

  “So you want to create an army of the dead in order to make peace?” I say, summarizing. Laney laughs at the sarcasm in my voice.

  “You think I’m evil,” Mr. Jackson says.

  “Yes,” I say. “And I don’t believe you. Once your army destroys anyone getting in the way of ‘peace,’ then what?”

  “I call them off.”

  “You call off the walking dead?”

  “They’re Reanimates, not zombies,” Mr. Jackson reiterates.

  “I’m not sure I see the difference.”

  “One day perhaps you will,” he says in his usual cryptic way.

  “You’ll never stop,” I say. “Not until you control everything.”

  “I’m not looking for power, Rhett,” he says. “Only to make your parents’ and my wife’s sacrifice worth something.” With that, he turns, his cloak whirling around his feet, and walks away.

  ~~~

  The following day arrives thunderously.

  I awake to the ground rumbling and Laney shouting. “What’s going on?” she yells.

  I try to stand, but the ground moves and I stumble over, scraping my knee. “I don’t know!” I yell back.

  Footsteps slap the stone.

  Xavier appears, skidding to a stop, water sloshing from the sides of a bucket he’s carrying. “Xave! What’s happening?” I drag myself to the bars.

  Xavier’s eyes are wild, panicked. There are streaks of blood on his face and hands. He shoves the bucket to the ground, nearly spilling it. In his other hand there’s a knife, a bar of soap, and a wiry scrub brush, the bristly kind you’d use to clean crusty dishes.

  When the knife clatters to the ground, I see the ribbons of blood slithering from it.

  The ground shakes.

  A heavy BOOM-BOOM-BOOOOOM! echoes through the dungeon corridors.

  He doesn’t look at me, just crouches and dunks his hands in the bucket, retracts them, and starts furiously scrubbing his hands with the soap and brush.

  “Xave!” I say, but my friend is gone, somewhere else, a place beyond hearing. He keeps scrubbing, dunking, scrubbing some more, even as new explosions shake the plastic bucket, chattering it along the stone. I say his name a few more times, but if he hears me, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

  “Carter, what’s going on?” Laney says.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” I say. Somehow.

  My shell-shocked friend is our only option, and I have an idea. “Where’s Beth?” I shout as loudly and as forcefully as I can.

  Xave’s head snaps toward me, as if someone has slapped him from the other side. His eyes lock on mine and widen, as if he’s just now realizing that I’m here. For a second, he stops scrubbing, and then continues, more violently than before.

  He speaks. “Father’s taught me to do things…”—he stops, seems to rethink his words, continues”—…I’ve done things…”—back to his hands, scrubbing harder and harder, turning them redder and redder, like hot coals. “No matter how hard I scrub, I can still see the blood on my hands.”

  His hands are perfectly clean, and yet I know exactly what he means. “Yeah, me, too,” I say, although I know it’s different for him. Our conversations feel like they’ve become a confessional between friends.

  “You have?” he says, his expression so child-like and innocent, although I know it’s hiding acts that are anything but.

  “Yes,” I say. “This world has changed us all. We’re harsher than we want to be. But that doesn’t mean we don’t have the chance to turn back, to find redemption in doing the right thing.” Like getting us the hell out of here.

  “That’s what I’m trying to do,” Xavier says, finally dropping the soap and brush into the bucket. “Thank you, Rhett. Thank you for understanding. You’ll be safer here.”

  He stands and runs off amidst shaking ground and rattling bars and thunder in the distance, even as I shout my best friend’s name at the top of my lungs.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Laney’s screaming as loudly as I am, a piercing shriek that surely carries well beyond the dungeon confines.

  Behind me, there’s a long and pronounced CRAAACKing sound. I twist around to find the stone floor opening up, gravity grabbing shards and chunks of rock and sucking them into a black void. I cling to the bars like a lifeline, even as the floor tumbles away beneath me.

  Hurried and anxious voices spill out from somewhere to the left, but I’m too busy bicycling my legs and clutching the bars to think about what it means.

  And then the bars are gone and I’m falling, falling…forward?...hitting the stone floor, directly on my still-injured shoulder—which screams and hammers and explodes with pain—rolling and crashing into the rock-hard wall.

  The ground shakes and my shoulder roars and strong hands pull me to my feet, two on each side, under my arms. To my left there’s a shimmer of blond hair and Laney’s determined face, grunting at my weight. And to my right…

  The blacker-than-night beggar, his face contorted and split with what appears to be agony. Even as I stare at him, he backs away, excruciating pain causing him to shake his head and grit his teeth and ball his fists, and then he’s running, down the corridor and away from us.

  There’s no time to think, as small rocks and dust begin raining from above, tearing loose from the straining dungeon ceiling. We give chase, following the shadow of the beggar, who’s suddenly so fast, sprinting effortlessly on the unsteady ground.

  We plunge into terrifying darkness, and for a few moments I think we might meet our end when we knock ourselves out running headlong into a stone wall. But no…

  A window of light appears up ahead, unobstructed. Which means we just have to run in a straight line and we’ll make it.

  We’ll make it.

  The beggar’s profile appears in the light, not twenty strides ahead, and then—

  BOOM!

  A particularly powerful and teeth-chattering explosion sends larger chunks of rock pelting at my back and hammering my hands, which I throw up to protect my head. And before us, the light disappears and we’re thrust into complete darkness.

  ~~~

  I stop and Laney crashes into me, clutching at my arms to keep us both from tumbling to the ground, and for three heart-pounding seconds, we can’t see a thing.

  A light appears.

  The beggar is still in the tunnel with us, his face orange and ghostly in the eerie light, which appears to be jetting from his fingertips.

  Why didn’t he escape when he had the chance?

  Doesn’t matter, he’s here now, and without him we’d be blind. We make for him, and with each step I can see the pain on his face, forcing his mouth into a crooked line and his eyes shut. What’s wrong with him? Clearly he needs medical attention.

  We reach him and he manages to motion to the boulder blocking the entrance, a slab of rock ripped from the wall. Using sign language, he conveys his absurd plan. I’ll lift the boulder and you run out. Then I’ll follow.

  “But how can you—” I start to say, but I’m cut off when the barrier begins to rise and a sliver of white light creeps in along the floor.

  My gaze snaps back to the man, who’s in a fighter’s stance, his knees bent, his arms outstretched, his eyes closed, concentrating.

  And the giant, impossibly heavy rock floats upward with a groan and a crunch and a scrape.

  “Go!” Laney
shouts, diving for the floor and snake-slithering through.

  I follow, sliding under, but then I pause in the worst possible spot: directly beneath the tons of rock hovering above me, enough weight to crush me into human marmalade. Stupidly, I twist around and squirm back, jutting my head back into the tunnel.

  “How will you get out?” I shout, and the man’s eyes flutter open, a look of horror and fear and pain evident in his stare, which is wide-eyed one second and then cringing and narrowed the next. He gives a single nod toward the entrance, and then shuts his eyes tight once more.

  He fades away as strong arms drag me through the opening, and I claw at the rock, shouting for the man to follow us.

  Rumpled and dirt-powdered, Laney drags me to my feet, all on her own this time, as if I weigh next to nothing rather than a couple hundred pounds. “What was that?” she says, hitting me in the chest.

  As if in response to her question, the boulder collapses with a heavy crash.

  “No,” I whisper.

  “He’s gone,” Laney says. “Whoever he was, he’s gone, and we’ll be dead, too, if we don’t move!”

  We have no other choice, so we run counterclockwise along what is clearly the stadium’s atrium, an oval ring that surrounds the field’s bleachers, where vendors would normally sell hotdogs and sodas and popcorn during a game.

  Lifeless—thankfully—corpses and skeletons hang from the ceiling above us.

  An opening appears to the left and we take it, darting down a path that leads onto the field.

  Ahead: chaos.

  Fireballs arc across the sky, landing in explosions of blue and green flames, setting hooded witches and warlocks alight; they run screaming across the grass, which is burnt and charred in most places. Electricity crackles and scorches from the sky, where Volts attack from above, riding chariots pulled by the Destroyers, whose petrification attacks fill the air with nearly invisible ripples. Black-cloaked witches turn to stone and then crumble in little piles.

  It’s mutiny, I realize, gaping at the scene. Mr. Jackson was right. Our only hope of survival was being tucked away in the dungeon, out of sight of the other witches and warlocks.

  Laney realizes it at the same time. “The Necros’ allies are attacking them from the inside,” she says.

  “We’ve got to find Beth and Xavier,” I say, not caring that my confused friend ran off without helping us and that Beth is surely dead. “Before it’s too late.”

  “We will,” Laney says.

  To the left, a horde of Necros have gathered by a rack where weapons—swords and guns and knives—are kept. To the right, dozens of other Necromancers are chanting in low tones, their arms raised above their heads, the nearby cauldrons smoking and shaking.

  “They’re trying to raise the dead early,” Laney murmurs.

  Above us, there’s a massive BOOM! and yellow mist bursts along a curved arc, as if there’s an enormous glass dome above us. “The wards,” I say. “New America is testing the wards, looking for weaknesses.”

  “If they find one, we’re all dead,” Laney says grimly.

  “We have to hope they don’t find one until we find my friends. Weapons,” I say, motioning back the other direction.

  We skirt along the bleachers, staying low, trying to avoid being seen. Both sides have their hands full, and don’t seem to notice a couple of human teenagers sneaking along. The Necros, now fully armed, charge into the fray, slashing and shooting at any witches that get in their way.

  I sift through the picked-over rack. An unopened chest rests off to the side. I open it. “Laney!” I hiss. I grab my sword and her Glock, handing it to her. “Thank you, Mr. Jackson,” I mumble, because clearly he’s kept our weapons safe and hidden for us, just in case we decided to join his cause.

  Laney snatches one of Huckle’s magged-up grenades for good measure.

  “For Beth?” Laney says, raising her gun.

  “For Beth,” I agree, raising my sword.

  We follow the Necros into the battle.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  A Volt dies, surprise all over her face when I block the electricity crackling from her fingertips and send it back at her. I stare at my hands, shocked that I’m still alive and the witch is dead. Now that I realize my resistance to magic, there’s so much more I can do.

  With uncontrolled glee, I whirl and spin and push every ounce of my focus into resisting the magic-filled air around me. Fireballs change direction, spinning off and colliding with witches and warlocks and wizards. Bolts of lightning aimed at my head skip away and sizzle into the bleachers. Destroyers who make the mistake of trying to turn me to stone find themselves frozen into rock statues. I don’t know exactly how I do it, just that it comes naturally to me—almost like instinct. It’s impossible, and yet, everything in my life is impossible so I guess I fit right in, a freak amongst freaks.

  Laney’s gun continues to sound, and I can hear the cries of her victims. She doesn’t discriminate; both the Necros and their enemies die in waves as she uses Huckle’s parting gifts. When she chucks Huckle’s grenade into a pile of witches, it splits into a dozen smaller incendiaries and explodes in a shower of purple sparks that send magical body parts flying in all directions.

  The chanting Necros have managed to raise a few creatures from the cauldrons, but they’re not fully formed. The monsters pull themselves out of their incubators, dripping with the noxious brew, barely able to stand. Their enemies kill them without discretion, and then turn on their creators, the chanting Necros.

  A Destroyer whips past a cauldron, knocking it over, gooey brown-green liquid and a mangled tangle of flesh and bones pouring out and pooling on the field.

  A fireball bounces past me, torching three more Necros.

  There’s blood-moisture on my face and arms.

  The smell of death is in the air.

  Explosions continue to rock the wards protecting the field. Will they break?

  That’s when I realize: the wards! Felix! No matter what Xave said—about him suspecting that Felix isn’t really that into him—I know that Xave won’t abandon his boyfriend. Not when there’s a chance it’s real. Xave’s one of the most loyal people I’ve ever met. Although he abandoned us down in the dungeon, he probably figured we’d be safest there anyway. So that’s where he’ll be. By Felix’s side, protecting him, even as Felix protects the Necro lair from New America’s missiles.

  “We’ve got to get outside!” I shout to Laney, who’s just jammed the muzzle of her gun in a Necro’s mouth and pulled the trigger. The warlock is instantly vaporized in a purple haze.

  “Okay!” she shouts back.

  BOOM-BOOM, BOOM-BOOM! A raucous clangor fills the air, only these booms aren’t explosions from missiles. They’re drumbeats.

  Laney reaches me and our eyes follow the sound, until we see a lone Necro drummer emerging from one of the tunnels. He’s carrying a large drum and beating it heavily from both sides.

  BOOM-BOOM, BOOM-BOOM!

  Momentarily, the fighting stops, Destroyers hovering in the air, Pyros holding their fireballs in their hands, Volts crackling energy across their fingertips—and Necros smiling wide grins of victory. All because of a drummer?

  And then he’s there. Xave’s father. Mr. Jackson. The Reaper. Standing on a raised platform above the field, dangling from invisible tethers.

  He stretches out his arms and says, “Your choice has been made, traitors! Behold the power of the Necromancers!” He throws his arms down, and the drum-booms stop, casting a tense silence on the field, broken only by the intermittent explosions against the warded dome above the field.

  Nothing happens. “Ha! You’re nothing, Reaper!” a Destroyer shouts from above, her long black hair blowing behind her in a light wind. “Your reign has passed. Extinction is all that’s left for the Necros.”

  Mr. Jackson’s eyes glitter, and he looks so different to the man who’s been visiting us. More confident. More powerful. Dangerous and deadly. His mouth doesn’t
open, but a strange cry seems to arise from him, like a strangled groan, a guttural moan, a piercing scream—all three strange noises mixing into one.

  The dead have arrived.

  The barest bones of a memory blazes through my mind: The child-creature-thing that we saw crawl from the cauldron when we first arrived at Heinz Field as Flora’s prisoners. The way it was dragged away, slimy and fighting and gnashing.

  How many other Reanimates, as the Reaper refers to them, were treated similarly? I’ve got a feeling we’re about to find out.

  The first dozen or so Reanimates sprint from the tunnel opening, parting around the Necro drummer like snow swirling around a mountain peak. Not staggering, not lurching…sprinting. Now I understand why Mr. Jackson was so pedantic in his name for them. These are nothing like the slow and brain-dead zombies from bad horror flicks. These are natural predators, with speed and energy and...

  (Minds?)

  …they leap on the Pyros and Volts—and even some of the low-flying Destroyers—with lion-like fury. Hungry, deadly. They bite and claw and rip the flesh from their enemies, who finally snap from their shock and begin to fight back, to summon magic. The dead fall in droves, like butchered cattle, but still they pour from the tunnel, thousands upon thousands of…

  Children. I realize it with a gasp. Although they’re naked, genderless, and mostly featureless, they’re small, too. Smaller than full grown anyway. With a bite of horror, I notice one with braces on its teeth, snapping inside its mouth, which is the only orifice it still has in its face. No nostrils. No eyeholes. Just a mouth full of hungry teeth.

  Of course. Six months since Salem’s Revenge. About twenty-four weeks. According to Xavier, it takes a week for each year of life (at the time of death), to reanimate a corpse. So every Reanimate in their army must be less than twenty-four years old, give or take, mostly kids.

  One of the creatures charges us and I can only stare, because this one’s not genderless, not featureless. It’s a mixture, half and half, part creature, part little girl, with one blue eye blinking, half a nose, and a full mouth. Short, brown hair hangs from one side. She’s fully dressed, in a blue and white polka dot dress that would be considered cute on any other girl, but which, on her, is grossly bloodstained.