by Mark Tufo
“Michael, you were stabbed in the side.”
“I know how field surgeons work, just promise me.” I gripped her arm.
“I promise, now let me go tend to the battle. And, Michael…thank you.”
I would have asked her for what, but I was already traveling the stars. I was close to death. I knew, because I caught a glimpse of where I was going to end up if that happened, purgatory. I walked, maybe floated. I don’t really remember the means of locomotion. I was just moving. Wherever I looked, I went in that direction. Now that I thought about it, stopping was not an option. That, in itself, was terrifying. You could never have a conversation, you could never touch another person, you could never just sit and ponder. Eternally set to wandering without aim or purpose. And that was only one facet of the place that sucked; the coloring was depressing as well. It was varying shades of gray, like a torrential downpour in fall during twilight, where the road melded into the sky and your vision was reduced to what was immediately in front of you. Even high beams were somewhat powerless to stop this phenomenon, and right now, I had not so much as a mini-flashlight attached to a keychain.
I would whip my head from side to side when I thought I might catch sight of someone who looked even remotely familiar as they whisked by. Oh yeah, that was another beautiful aspect of this place. You couldn’t even line up with someone and perhaps share in the misery together. There seemed to be some sort of repelling force involved so that the more you tried to get towards someone, the further away you would be sent. I thought I’d been alone in my brother’s basement, how wrong had I been. Life was abundantly around me, I’d just chosen not to be involved with the cicada songs, the buzzing of mosquitoes and deer flies. The wanderings of the occasional skunk or raccoon…any of them…all of them, more alive than the totality of this place. How could Hell be worse than this purgatory? To forever be relegated to this abandonment was unimaginable.
My tether to the real world was being cut. I don’t know how I knew, I just knew. The fabric of the place I was in was becoming more substantial may be the right description. Although, how does one put into words what they’ve never been exposed to before? How does the first monkey that the Russians launched into space come down and tell all his buddies what he was up to? I’m sure he, much like me, couldn’t even grasp the concept of where we’d been, much less relate that to others. I was losing my fight on Earth, and it probably had more to do with will than injury. Either way, it looked like I was going to be spending more time here than I wanted. That was, of course, until I caught sight of something coming my way. It was as black as the bottom of a murky lake at night. It stood out because of how it sucked the grayness from the surrounding landscape. And unlike everything in this place, it was coming right for me. I would have been less terrified of a clown riding a dragon.
I kept turning my head so that I would travel away from the approaching entity. However, no matter what direction I chose it stayed directly in front of me, coming closer. I was full throat screaming when I awoke on my surgical bed.
You’re welcome. The words followed me up through the passage from unconsciousness to full alertness.
“Tommy? You son of a bitch,” I said when I realized what he’d done. He’d basically scared me back to life. How the fuck often does that happen?
“How are you?” Bailey was looking down on me, the closest look to concern on her face that she could muster. It was more a cross of, “How bad are you hurt?” and “When can you get back in the fight?”
“Thankful to be alive.”
“That’s sort of a new concept for you, isn’t it?”
“The alternative is worse. How is Azile?”
“She just left you. She is nearly as cryptic as you. Said something about you wandering alone and that you needed help, Tommy could only do so much.”
I’m not going to lie. I had chills that started at the base of my spine and traveled the entire length, width, and breadth of my body.
“Does that mean anything to you?”
“No idea. How’s Talboton?” I quickly moved on to another subject.
“I fear that the invaders are using the cover of night to move back to the steel emplacements.”
“Didn’t think that one out too good. I maybe should have thought to tell you to bring them inside the gates.”
“That is certainly not your fault. You were busy. The task fell to me. I should have known better.”
“We’ll take them back tomorrow.”
“Michael, on two attempts you have nearly died. Do you truly wish to try again?”
“Third time is the charm.”
“I would really like to ask BT what he saw in you.”
“At this pace, I might be able to relay the question to him directly.” I smiled wanly, wondering if she knew the lie I’d just spoke. If so, she let it pass unheeded. “I feel better.”
The words had no sooner passed my lips than we heard gunfire. This was different, though. First off, it was further away and of differing calibers. Some smaller, some bigger than the standard 5.56 that was being fired within the confines of the town.
“I’ve got to go.”
I motioned for her to do so. I was going to follow…but at a much more subdued pace. More shots were fired and then they quit, although the quietude of the night was not allowed to return as it was filled with the cries and groans of the injured. Bailey was running around directing people to help the wounded.
I was losing my edge. I had not even realized I had company until an arm wrapped around my waist.
“Hello, Michael.”
“Hello, Mathieu, it is good to see you.”
“You should not be up and about just yet. In fact, by the size of that knife you should have never gotten up again.”
“You pulled that thing out?” When he nodded I thanked him.
“It appears the Denarthians have found a way to get past the missing firing pins.” Mathieu had a look of concern on his face. He would be very busy very shortly with trying his best to keep these injured people alive.
“This is something different. It isn’t the M-16s.”
“More rifles? How likely is that?”
“There’s your proof,” I said as I pointed to a man being led off the wall. “A lot of countries used to pack their surplus arms in grease. They can keep almost forever that way. Or they came across an underground bunker stuffed full of guns. Either way, they’ve got them, which makes me wonder why they want ours so bad.”
“People always want more.”
“You’re pretty smart for a werewolf.”
“This coming from a bat man.”
“That’s a myth, or at least I think it is. Even if I could turn into one of them, I wouldn’t. My luck, an eagle would swoop down and eat me.”
“I could certainly see that.” He had an easy smile on, but I could tell he was tense from what he was about to be knee-deep in. “Take it easy, Michael. Do not make all my effort go for naught.”
“I will. I’ll buy you a beer when this is over.”
“I very much look forward to that. This way!” Mathieu was talking to the men who were dragging their buddy over. He opened the door and escorted them to the bed I had just vacated.
My side stitched like I’d just run a ten-mile race without the benefit of hydration. I walked slowly. I was wondering when the raiders would make their push. I guess ultimately they could just pen us up in here like siege warfare. Although, in all likelihood, that would be easier on us than them. We had supplies for months, it would be much more difficult for them to sustain. No, odds were they were going to go on a major offensive and try to push through our defenses. This was going to be over in a couple of days.
I thought about going up on the wall, but just looking at the stairs was enough of a hindrance to dissuade me. And if there was a bullet with my name on it, that would be all she wrote. I had nothing left in the self-healing department and Azile had twice now given me more than I had a right to
take. I decided that maybe I should go check in on her for once, not that I could give her anything. Maybe I could hand her a glass of water or something.
I walked into the tavern/hotel, taking over ten minutes to climb those stairs. Each time I raised a leg, it felt like I was being stabbed again. Didn’t matter which leg I used, I could not favor one over the other to ease the pain. I finally started basically doing a push up with the banister to force myself up without raising my legs. This actually hurt less than the traditional method, and by that, I meant it was like getting punched in the throat instead of the balls.
By the time I got to the top of the stairs, I looked as if I’d been on the losing end of a dunk tank. I walked down the short hallway to Azile’s room. I knocked softly and then entered. I figured she would be asleep, and I didn’t want to awaken her. Just sitting there with her would be comfort enough after the hollowness of the place I’d just left. I could still feel the void within me, like my insides had been polluted from the contact of it. I was wrong about Azile being asleep. She had enough candles burning in her room to sufficiently light a concert stadium. She was in the middle of her room, her head thrown back. The folds of her robe hung down from her outstretched arms. She was standing in a hand drawn pentagram, a black candle at each point. Unlike the rest of the candles in the room, these seemed to absorb light, the flame itself an impossible black color like liquid tar.
“You should not be here.” She previously had, at no point, acknowledged my presence. Even now as she spoke, she neither moved her head nor opened her eyes. In fact, I don’t even think she moved her lips.
“I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“Better.”
“I can see that. Azile, I’m not going to stand here and profess to know what the hell I’m talking about in regards to witchcraft, but those candles...they’re not right.”
“White light has its purpose, but it requires time. It is about balance and harmony—of not taking more than can be given.”
That felt like it was directed to me.
“We do not have the time that white light necessitates.”
“This is dark magic?”
“In a sense.”
“You’re an evil witch?”
“I am as evil as I am good. Witches, like people, are both…not relegated to one or the other. It is true, I prefer white light over black but…”
“But what, Azile? Everything comes with a cost. I know that and I’m sure you do as well.”
“You would be dead right now, Michael, if not for the powers I tap into.”
“And what is that doing to you? I’d rather be dead than drag another down into the mire of my existence.”
“The dark arts are not in themselves evil, it is how they are used that determines their morality.”
“Hmm, let’s see, saving the life of one without a soul. I wonder where that lies on the scale.”
“In and of itself, fairly low. It is the feats you have still left to do that will determine the final outcome.”
“How do you know, Azile? And maybe I’m not supposed to fulfill this destiny you keep alluding to. Some force somewhere really wants to put me into the grave, and maybe rightfully so.”
“Of course they do, Michael. Good and evil are always playing out their wars on a much grander scale; we are merely the playing pieces. Sometimes the opposition wants you dead because of something in the future and sometimes your own side will sacrifice you in order to gain position.”
“Getting it from both sides, that’s such a human condition. Who would have thought the gods played the game the same way.”
“They are not all gods.”
I did not ask, nor want to know, what she meant by that. I would imagine that, somewhere in her explanation, there would have been a boogieman or the monster under the bed, and I didn’t need those old childhood fears to become reality. Shit, who am I kidding; I was now one of those monsters.
I watched her for another ten minutes before the candles first flared then went out. I should not have been surprised when the smoke from the extinguished flames converged and grew in size to something roughly man-shaped before dissipating. Azile looked drawn, maybe even haggard. I rushed in when she swooned, heedlessly breaking the plane of her pentagram. I didn’t burst into flame, so I figured it was all right. I snatched her before she fell and quickly brought her to her bed. She was asleep in my arms. I laid her down gently and took a quick glance around the room. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but I could feel the oily, greasy stare of something less than savory in the shadows. Waiting, watching, licking its teeth in preparation.
“Not yet, you fuck,” I told it. Maybe it hissed in response or maybe that was me sucking in air through clenched teeth.
I walked back down the stairs. I don’t know if it was my extraordinary healing powers or Azile’s call for help or maybe just my haste to get out of that room, but I felt legions better now than I had on my ascent. I don’t think ‘legions’ is the correct term, although somehow it fits. I was a great many times better. The air outside was cool but not chilly, not like Azile’s room had been. In fact, now that I think about it, I had been able to see my breath as I spoke to her.
“Azile, what are you doing?” I asked the wind. I should have realized the whistling wasn’t right, but it made sense as soon as rocks the size of cannonballs started smashing into things. “What the fuck!?” I thought it was hail until I saw the stars above my head, and oh yeah, now that I’m thinking about it, who does that shit? I mean, who in their right mind looks up during a mega hailstorm? Me, that’s who. The splintering of beams was run roughshod over by the screams of people having their bones broken or legs crushed.
The storm was brief but intense. At least three buildings I could see were reduced to a sum of their parts. I noted the hotel had not so much as been scratched, which was pretty profound considering I saw at least four boulders lying around its foundation. More Azile or just dumb luck, I didn’t know. I ran to where I heard the loudest screams, figuring they had the best chance of being saved. At least four people were already there digging through the rubble. I was about to tear into it myself when the rifle fire began at the far side of town. A section of the wall had been struck, and I was certain I would find several platoons’ worth of enemy soldiers making for the breach.
Our defense was hampered by the lack of light. Can’t shoot what you can’t see. When I got there, the fighting had been reduced to hand-to-hand combat, and we were on the losing end, being outnumbered nearly two-to-one. Reinforcements were coming, but not before some of the men coming in would be able to get into the town and create havoc. A man who had fought his way through the initial defenders was coming my way. He was a good-sized man, looked like he was a lumberjack by trade. Long, scruffy beard and over-sized hands held a large, two-sided axe. His face, which should have had a lazy, carefree smile, was pulled back into a mask of hatred and anger as he raised his weapon up in an effort to “fell” me.
I had more than ample opportunity to shoot him, but that would of course mean that I had my rifle with me. Which was not the case. I had been going to see Azile and didn’t much think I would need it. However, since I was going to be around a woman, I should have thought to take one as defense. I caught the handle of the axe as it was on the downswing. I think the tree feller was surprised with the strength at which I held him at bay. He was screaming at me in a language I was sure was full of all manner of unspeakable acts, but, for the life of me, I couldn’t figure it out. Sounded something like Cajun mixed with Portuguese and maybe whale song added in. The word “mercenary” flitted across my mind. I would have thought a little longer on it, but I was fairly busy at the time.
I twisted to the side, dodging the blade as I let it crash to the ground, necessitating a sharpening at some later stage. I punched the side of the man’s face hard enough to send two teeth spiraling into the air. Not sure if that was as big of a coup as it sounds, since I don’t think o
ral hygiene was high on his list of priorities—not if his rank breath was any indication. If anything, I only seemed to anger him more. He was bringing the axe back up and turning towards me. This time, I hit him with a left hook flush in the nose. Blood spurted out in a 360-degree arc. I had a hard time believing I’d been the first to break that hooked beak, but the blood told the story. It flowed in rivulets down into his moustache and beard. His eyes watered over and, if he lived long enough, they would blacken for sure. The axe was forgotten for the time being as he tried to orient himself. I moved in, placing both my hands behind his head, I pulled his head down and shot my knee up, crushing what was left of his nose into his face. He gave a strangled ‘ung’ sound, fighting to get air as blood flooded his airway. He fell down and away from me. I brought the heel of my boot down on the now tenderized portion of his face. The bones had already been traumatized and yielded easily enough to my stomping.
It won’t matter how long I live or how many men I kill, no matter what they did or who they were trying to hurt. The sound the skull makes when it’s being crushed will always turn my stomach. He was dead before I could separate my foot from him.
I would have thought my savage act would have made the next man reconsider his choices in life, it didn’t. He was screaming in that same bizarre mixology of language. My knuckles were split and hurting. Hitting someone in the face bare-knuckled is a painful experience; don’t ever let anyone tell you differently.
I reached down and quickly picked up the axe. Whoever these people were they didn’t care much about anything. His eyes didn’t even grow in the least as he saw me now armed like him. I wouldn’t have thought it possible if it hadn’t happened to me. We had both swung at the same time, our blades at slightly differing angles, as they slammed into each other, notching the hardened steel and fusing the two together for a moment. I pulled mine free with a grunt before I swung again, my attacker slower to respond. The edge of my blade rode up the wooden shaft, cutting off splinters as it did so, before entering into his fist, easily cutting off his index, middle and ring finger. He caterwauled in pain, but didn’t let go of the axe. He was going to have a hard time wielding the thing with one hand. Through all the din of war around me I heard his fingers fall to the ground, sounded much like you would expect it to. I guess if you thought about wet salami striking a tile floor then you nailed it.
