by Steven Novak
“Yes.”
“And you heard nothing? Supposedly Mr. Alexander over there was pretty worked up. Some of the neighbors near the end of the block even heard him. Are you telling me you didn’t hear a thing?”
As if swallowed by a black hole, sound, light and thought imploded on Chris Jarvis. Tommy and Nicky, his boys. They were gone. Again.
As if rising from the darkness of some subterranean cave, Sergeant Alvarez’s voice was now a faraway, distant and echoing thing. “Hello? Mr. Jarvis? Are you telling me you didn’t hear anything at all? Nothing?”
Shaking the cobwebs loose in his brain, Chris managed to pull himself back to reality once more. “No. I didn’t hear anything. I was sleeping.”
Alvarez eyed him up and down, unsure what to make of Chris’ reaction. “Well, the boys’ foster parents have been made aware of the situation and we have some men searching the woods at the moment. Seeing as this isn’t the first time this has happened, more than likely they’ll come back when they’re good and ready, just like before. Still, I would advise that you don’t leave town, just in case we have any more questions.”
The seriousness in Alvarez’s tone, along with its undeniably accusatory quality, ripped Chris the remainder of the way back to the real world. “Wait, what are you implying? You think—what? Wait, I didn’t have anything to do with this.”
Rolling his eyes, Alvarez turned to head back toward his car. “Just don’t stray too far from home Jarvis. As soon as we have some information, we’ll let you know.”
After the Alexanders were finally coaxed into their home, the remaining police officers returned to their cars and pulled away. Chris Jarvis never once moved from his stationary position in his doorway. A thick, venomous silence slowly crept across the street, shocked neighbors shooting disgusted glances and silently whispering to one another as they retreated to the safety of their homes. They think I did it, Chris told himself. My sons are missing and they think I did it. My sons are missing — again. It would be another five minutes before he closed the door, and ten after that before he finally sat down.
Sleeping would once again be impossible.
*
*
CHAPTER 22
TALL TALES OF A MERCILESS KILLER
*
His movements were such that even the forest underneath his feet remained unaware of his presence. Between the leather clad fingers of his hand, he gripped tightly onto a pair of blades that had served him well for years, blades that violently ended the lives of more living things than he would scarcely endeavor to count. Every breath was carefully regulated, allowing him to inhale the necessary oxygen, while remaining noiseless enough to keep from arousing suspicion. An iron determination etched into the rock-hard features of his face, Krystoph moved through the underbrush of the Fillagrou forest with such expertise that one could easily imagine he’d lived in it his entire life. Keeping parallel to the clearing, his eyes scanned the area surrounding the escaped group of Megalots munching heartily on the deep red foliage. Hearing a faint voice in the distance, the former Ochan general came to a rather sudden stop, his eyes moving instantly in its direction. Less than fifty yards away, a regiment of angry, visibly annoyed Ochan soldiers were slowly making their way on foot in the direction of the grazing beasts. Counting seven of them, Krystoph quickly took inventory of their weapons and general positions, already beginning to formulate a plan of attack. In the years since he crawled from the Fire Caves on Ocha, Krystoph had experienced this exact situation countless times. In his quest for revenge, the Ochan had coldly enacted the murders of so many of his own people—so very many, in fact, that he believed his hands would never truly be free of their blood, his fingers were forever stained. Seeping into his pores, it had now taken residence underneath the thick scales covering his flesh, where it would remain. Despite the fact that he could distinctly remember the looks on each and every one of their faces at the moment they took their last breaths, never once had he second-guessed his quest. Through his veins moved a poisonous, dangerous liquid. As thick as syrup and as cold as ice, his was undeniably Ochan blood. Through him flowed the resolve of a killer, born and bred.
It was vengeance that now gave him purpose. It was vengeance that renewed his life and vengeance he believed would ultimately set him free.
Krystoph tightened his muscles and carefully resumed his forward movement. The forest around him was silent; in the distance the Fillagrou suns had slowly begun their half-day journey of descent. Years ago, when he first set foot in the Red Forest, the former Ochan general abhorred this world. Its stifling hotness, its unending silence, day after day filled with unending torrents of rain, this place was everything Ocha was not, and everything he wanted no part of. Having survived alone, living among the trees for so many years now, Krystoph had learned to not only accept the oddness of this world but also embrace it. Its silence had become his companion, his friend, his witness—and often his accomplice. The silence would never leave him. The silence would never judge him. The silence would never speak of his misdeeds or question his methods. The silence would remain exactly that.
Less than twenty feet from the Ochan regiment, Krystoph positioned himself behind the trunk of a massive, grayish-brown tree. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the familiar tangy-warm scent of the hunt, allowing it to fill his lungs and replenish his resolve. As the group of Ochans moved past him and into the clearing, Krystoph slipped from his hiding place and popped up behind the soldier bringing up the rear of the group. In a single crisp movement, he sliced the creature’s neck open with a deadly swiftness belying his massively muscled frame. While precise, quick and fatal, nothing about the attack felt the least bit rehearsed or repeated. This was less a reaction than an action. With his hand over the soldier’s mouth, inches away from the blood spraying from his neck, Krystoph pulled the lifeless corpse of the Ochan soldier to the forest floor. At no point did he make even the slightest sound. Moving forward, he repeated the exact same tactic on two more soldiers, each of their bodies swallowed up by the thick forest underbrush with barely a whisper. Buried deep within his chest, Krystoph’s heart continued to beat a calculated rage uniquely his own. This was exactly what he had been put here to do. This came naturally. This was his calling.
Stepping cautiously from the tree line into the clearing, the leader of the Ochan regiment moved patiently toward the grazing Megalots. He’d always hated these disgusting creatures, believing them to be far more bothersome than they were worth. The beasts were initially discovered grazing in large numbers by the invading Ochan army on a world called Gleesval. For the most part, despite their size and appearance, the creatures proved harmless and easily trained. The Ochans rounded up the mighty-bodied herbivores and domesticated them, smoothly acclimating them into lives as beasts of burden. If word were to get out that his regiment allowed them to break free from their shackles and escape into the forest, he and any serving under him would likely never live down the disgrace. The creatures had to be recaptured and punished. Less than twenty feet from the nearest Megalot, the Ochan leader extended his hand behind him, motioning for his regiment to follow.
“Step lightly,” he whispered at the same time to everyone and no one in particular while removing a thick leather strap from his belt and pulling it into a loop. “On my count ….”
Never taking his eyes off the steel hook draped atop the rear of the massive creature’s thick hide, the regiment leader tiptoed slowly to within five feet of the beast, a smug grin on his face. “One …two …now!”
Leaping forward, the Ochan latched the looped leather around the hook and tugged backward with all his strength. Frightened by the Ochan’s voice, the Megalot thrust forward violently, lifting its nearly eight hundred pound body onto its massively muscled hind legs. With the safety harness firmly attached, the spastic movement succeeded only in pulling the leather strap painfully tight around its neck. The feel of leather against throat was one that had been beaten into the creature s
ince being born into its life of servitude. Without thinking, it settled down, quickly becoming complacent once more.
With the Megalot firmly under his control, the regiment leader smiled brightly, his pointed tongue sliding across his sharp teeth, his head moving from side to side with smug satisfaction. “Oh no! You’ll not be going anywhere, you foul beast! I’ve got you now!”
The Ochan’s victory celebration proved short lived, however. Around him the other six Megalots scattered wildly in every direction, barreling full speed toward the trees at the opposite end of the clearing. Much to the Ochan’s shock, his entire regiment had apparently failed to gain control over even one of the other rogue creatures.
His smile morphed into an angry scowl as the Ochan screamed at the top of his lungs, “You fools! How have you failed to gain control of your beasts?” Pulling his hands into fists, he turned to look behind him, intent on further admonishing his soldiers. “Is it possible that I have been assigned the most useless of all Ochan warriors? How is it that you fail in even the most simple of tas—”
Where he expected to see an entire regiment, he saw only a single Ochan: Krystoph.
At Krystoph’s feet lay the unmoving bodies of two soldiers, their heads submerged in pools of their own blood. Following the trail of blood, the regiment leader spotted yet another corpse sprawled awkwardly in the mud near the tree line. Despite having never seen Krystoph face-to-face, he knew instantly who he was, and he could scarcely believe his eyes. For years, soldiers patrolling the Fillagrou forest had spoken of an Ochan warrior living among the trees, a silent, unstoppable killer with an unrelenting thirst for the blood of his own. Until this very moment though, he believed these stories to be nothing more than tall tales and harmless campfire nonsense created by bored warriors thirsty for battle the likes of which they hadn’t drunk in years.
Gripping tighter onto the blood-covered blades in his hands, Krystoph steadied his muscles, preparing himself for the rush of the kill. It was at that moment the regiment leader realized beyond a doubt that what stood before him was no fairy tale. Moving with astounding speed, he reached for the blade dangling from his waist. His movement was precise and determined, very nearly too quick for the naked eye to capture.
It was, however, not fast enough.
*
*
CHAPTER 23
STAMPEDING BEASTS
*
From the moment Staci Alexander stole a glance into the black, cavernous eyes of the Ochan calling himself Krystoph, she knew she disliked him. His every gesture seemed cold and calculated, as if he was making a conscious decision to keep certain things hidden from the group. There was something he wasn’t telling them, something he didn’t want them to know. Watching his large, muscular body snake its way through the forest away from the group, she swallowed deeply, trying her hardest to ignore the feeling of dread exponentially building inside her stomach.
Staying low to the ground to remain hidden, she crawled on her stomach to Tommy, just a few feet away and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “I don’t like him.”
“Who?” Tommy responded in a hushed whisper.
“Him—the green guy, Krystoph.”
On this, Tommy could not disagree. There were many things about Krystoph that weren’t sitting quite right with him either, though a part of him wondered if this might simply be due to the fact that he was an Ochan. Every member of the Ochan race he had come into contact with had tried to kill him, and there was no denying that this fact could severely impair his judgment. Looking away from Staci briefly, he glanced in the direction Krystoph had scurried, seeing nothing. As if the Red Forest swallowed him whole, the former Ochan general had disappeared without a trace. Not even a single leaf moved in his wake, not a hint of a track left behind. He was simply gone, vanished. Turning his attention back to Staci, Tommy could see the worry on her face; the slight raising of her eyebrows had created a tiny though noticeable wrinkle across her pale, sweaty forehead.
Despite an equally overwhelming uneasiness coursing through his body, Tommy realized he needed to do his best to quell her fears. “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay.”
Reaching forward, he rested his hand tenderly over the top of hers, wrapping his fingers underneath and squeezing gently. Immediately Staci’s face turned red, a warmness spreading from her hand, through her arm and finally finding a home in the roundish curves of her cheeks. Despite her worries, despite the ominous, nearly overwhelming fear looming on the horizon like the storm to end all storms—ever so subtlety, she smiled.
The tender, slightly embarrassing moment between the children only lasted an instant.
“SCATTER!” Nestor’s shallow voice cut through the silence, quickly garnering the attention of everyone in the group.
Raising herself onto her knees, Staci gazed over the foliage in front of her and toward the clearing. Like a massive wall of sinewy muscles, the pack of six snarling Megalots was suddenly charging in their direction. A cloud of thick, brownish dust rose up from behind them, tossed aloft by the weight of their immense flat feet. Thick spittle with a barely noticeable greenish hint flipped from the corners of their gaping, squealing maws as they snarled violently in confusion and anger. The awesome sight instantly caused Staci’s body to freeze in place.
With a noticeable amount of urgency in his voice, Nestor rose to his feet, arms flailing. “Move! Move! Move now!” Turning to run, he wrapped his arms around Nicky Jarvis, lifting the boy into the air with ease before sprinting in the opposite direction.
Even with the wall of wild, leather-skinned muscle bearing down on her and threatening to grind her bones into a fine paste, Staci remained still. Much like the expression of terror on her face, her limbs had straightened stiff and unmoving; the horrifying cloud of Megalots shaking the forest floor with every fevered step.
“Staci, come on!” Tommy yelled, tugging her so hard in the opposite direction that her shoulder nearly popped from its socket.
Suddenly running at full speed in no particular direction, Staci was finding it difficult to keep up with the much faster Tommy Jarvis. Her chest was on fire, salty sweat pouring down her face as she tried to scream for him to slow down, but was unable to find the necessary breath. Behind her, the forest exploded as the mass of heavy-bodied creatures slammed headfirst into the tree line. Their sturdy horns easily tore the ages-old gray trees to pieces, the full weight of their bodies knocking more than a few over completely. Coming into contact with a particularly muddy patch of dirt, she lost her grip on Tommy’s hand, her feet slipping out from underneath her as the ground rushed toward her face. Though she was able to brace much of her fall with her left arm, the firmness of the Fillagrou soil smacked into the side of her body, knocking what little breath remained from her chest and sending a sharp twinge of pain across her torso. After lifting her head groggily, she spit a chunky wad of mud from between her lips. Her head was swirling, the rumbling in the ground getting more noticeable with every passing second. Less than thirty feet behind, rapidly closing on her position and ready to trample her to bits, was one of the mindless, frustrated Megalots.
With Nicky Jarvis pulled tightly against the underside of his shell as he barreled full speed through the cluttered forest, Nestor could clearly hear at least one massive creature bearing down on him from somewhere behind. Despite being quite spry for a Tycarian, the Megalots were exceedingly faster—deceptively fast in fact, especially considering their gargantuan size. His eyes shut tight, Nicky continued to grip at the grooves in Nestor’s shell so firmly that his fingers had gone a nearly translucent white, drained completely of their blood. Taking a moment to glance over his shoulder, Nestor spotted a single howling beast barely more than ten feet away and getting closer. Realizing he had no chance of out-maneuvering the massive creature, the Tycarian soldier altered his plan. Running through the available options, he realized that only one remained; there was only a single choice to be made. Digging his feet in and kicking up clumps of dirt,
Nestor’s massive body came to a sliding stop.
Prying Nicky from his chest, he pushed the petrified boy to the ground. “No matter what happens, I must insist you do not move an inch, lad!”
Behind him he could hear the approaching monster. Confused, the feral beast was simply running, slamming into everything and anything standing in its path, reducing much of it to little more than splinters. Turning to face the rabid creature, Nestor tightened the muscles in his body. Digging his wide toes into the ground, he further strengthened his position. Breathing deep, he lowered his shoulder and placed his body directly between the tiny boy curled up in the fetal position behind him and the rampaging Megalot charging full bore in their direction. Though a Tycarian’s shell is notoriously thick, able to absorb even the stiffest of blows, Nestor couldn’t help but wonder whether or not it would withstand the wrecking ball force of the Megalot’s body. In the end, however, it did not matter. Even if Nicky Jarvis wasn’t a child of the prophecy, he remained a child. For Nestor Rockshell, the decision was simple.
Gritting his teeth, he braced for impact.
Akin to the colliding of two trains, the stampeding Megalot slammed full-force into the sturdy shell of the Tycarian warrior. What resulted was a sound so loud that it reverberated for miles throughout the forest, the percussion blast wobbling one hundred foot tall trees and nearly shaking them loose from the soil. Horn ground into shell, flesh smacked against flesh. The crash sent both Nestor and the Megalot sailing in opposite directions, engulfed in a cloud of scattered leaves and upturned soil. After smashing through one tree, Nestor’s body at last came to a stop when it crashed into another, splitting it down the middle as if hit with an axe. Barely conscious, his vision blurring and his body racked with pain, Nestor lifted his face from the dirt and spotted Nicky still curled up on the ground fifteen feet away. With the boy safe, he at last gave in to unconsciousness.
