by Bobby Adair
"Where is he?"
A few of the priests stopped turning the demon in the fire and looked around.
"Who do you mean, sir?"
"The tall one." Winthrop waved his hands, agitated.
"Phillip's off getting more demons, I think," one of them said.
Winthrop shook his head disgustedly. If the dirt-scratcher were around, he'd reprimand him, but the snarl in his stomach told him food was more important. He walked to the fire, staring at the roasting demon as it turned from pink to black and the men handed him a piece. He looked around the campsite, chewing. He needed to coordinate the army to leave for Brighton. He needed to free Brighton the way he'd freed these ignorant people, showing them the true light of the blessed.
Winthrop stared up at the ceiling, listening as the gods whispered a word into his ears that he'd almost forgotten. Tenbrook. He felt a shimmer of fear, then excitement as he thought through ways to dispose of the devil's servant. He'd feed him to the demons. Or he'd feed him to his people.
He'd killed Blackthorn, and he'd kill whoever was left in his stead. Winthrop had more than enough men to tear down the Brighton wall, running over all who opposed him with the blood of a thousand demons. His men and women would sacrifice themselves on the altar of Brighton so that they could create a path back to Winthrop's rightful chair.
One of Winthrop's nameless priests approached him, shifting from foot to foot.
"Father, I have news."
Winthrop tried to project his answer into a thought without speaking. The man stared at him, confused. Reverting to human-speak, Winthrop asked, "What is it?"
"We found something outside the dome."
The man beckoned behind Winthrop, and Winthrop turned to see several of his followers breaking through the crowd, guiding several large horses with matted fur and fear in their eyes.
"Where did you find them?" Winthrop asked.
"Outside in the streets, while we were looking for demons," the man answered.
Another man said, "They were clustered together, drinking from a puddle. We were able to coax them over."
Winthrop thought back to the battle on the hill. Most of the horses had been killed or run off after he'd killed the devil Blackthorn. But these must have survived.
"They've come back to serve their god," Winthrop pronounced. "How many are there?"
"About a dozen. We have the others outside."
"Good. Keep them ready, until we march. My priests and I will use them as we head back to Brighton."
Chapter 23: Oliver
When Oliver came down the stairs and got to the bottom level of the tower, he saw Ivory across the big room standing near the closed door, looking confused. Kirby had her big gun strapped across her back, but in one hand she held one of her hand grenades. In the other hand, she pointed a hand-sized, metallic device at Ivory.
"Where are the rest of them?" Kirby demanded.
"Upstairs," Oliver told her, answering for Ivory. "They're on the way down."
Kirby waved the metal device at Ivory.
Ivory looked at the device like he wanted to walk over and touch it.
"Move," she said.
"Why?" Ivory asked.
"Because I told you to." She wasn't pleased.
Pointing at the metallic device in Kirby's hand, Oliver asked, "Is that a gun, too?"
Kirby looked at the gun as though checking to make sure it wasn't invisible. "Of course, it is."
"A real gun?" Ivory asked.
Kirby nodded.
"Is it big enough to kill a demon?" Oliver asked.
"Yes," Kirby answered Oliver but kept deadly eyes focused on Ivory. "And big enough to kill you. Go over by the stairs with Oliver."
Ivory looked at the gun and weighed the choice on whether to comply, but didn't move.
"We're not a danger to you," Oliver told Kirby. "We're friends."
"Friends?" Kirby asked.
"We're friendly," Oliver clarified. "I told you we didn't come here to hurt you. We saw you from up on the hill and wanted to talk to you."
Kirby looked back at Ivory. "I don't want to hurt you either, but you understand now that this is a gun. I can kill you with it so fast you won't even know you're dead. Go over there."
Ivory blinked as he looked at the small gun in Kirby's hand.
"C'mon." Oliver waved for Ivory to step away from Kirby and cross the room to stand by the stairs.
Melora and Beck rounded the corner at the top of the last flight of on the way down.
Beck stopped, staring at Kirby, her strange clothing, and her Tech Magic weapons. His mouth hung open in wonder.
Melora ran to the bottom of the stairs and waited for Ivory to cross the room.
"Is Jingo coming?" Ivory asked.
Beck pointed behind him and absently answered, "On the way."
"She has one of those things," said Melora, tugging at Ivory's arm to pull him back onto the stairs.
"It's a hand grenade," Oliver told her. "But she's not going to hurt you with it."
"It's insurance," said Kirby. Then she glared at each of them for a second. "All of you understand what this can do, right? You saw it explode outside. You saw it kill those mutants."
"Mutants?" Oliver asked, but was ignored.
Taking the steps downward, one at a time, deliberately, Beck pointed at the warm flames burning in the enormous fireplace and the crudely constructed chairs arrayed in a semi-circle in front of it. "We should sit down and talk. We mean you no harm."
Kirby looked over at the chairs and the inviting fire.
Oliver guessed that she hadn't been warm in a long time. Hiding in that cold, wet ship had to have been miserable. He took a few steps toward the chairs. "We should all sit down."
"We have lots of questions," said Beck, "as I'm sure you do. We've never met somebody who wasn't from Brighton or the smaller towns." He laughed, nervous or giddy. "We thought we were the only people in the world."
Kirby looked at each of them, taking a moment to scrutinize each. "Bows. Swords," she observed, and then mumbling to herself, she said, "you people really are backward. No guns?"
"None," Oliver answered. "I told you. We've never seen a gun, and I'd never even heard of a hand grenade, until today."
"That hand grenade was amazing," said Ivory anxiously. "Can you show me how to make one?"
Kirby looked at Ivory strangely, and then a noise from the stairs caught her attention.
Jingo had just come onto the last flight. "You are the Kirby that Oliver told us about?"
She stared at Jingo but didn't answer.
As Jingo descended the stairs, he pulled the hood back from his cloak.
Kirby gasped when she saw the deformity the spore had made of his head. She involuntarily stepped toward the door.
"Uninfected people find me ugly," Jingo called across the room. "I'm not offended."
"You…" Kirby started but had trouble finding her words. "You sound normal."
"He's not normal," Oliver cut in. "He's three hundred years old. He's one of the Ancients."
"Three hundred?" Kirby asked. "That's not…" But Kirby stopped talking, and her eyes betrayed some thoughts she didn't voice.
"It is possible," said Jingo, "and I can see from the look on your face that you know it's true."
"And you're not a crazed monster?" Kirby asked, in an empty tone of voice, as though repeating someone else's words.
"As sane as you," said Jingo.
"He's the smartest man I've ever met," said Ivory. "He's not a monster."
"The spore didn't ruin your mind?" Kirby asked.
"It opened my mind," said Jingo. "It made me more intelligent than I was before."
"They told us the spore made men into monsters." Kirby muttered it to herself more than anyone. "The forbidden stories told the truth?"
Jingo stopped walking and cocked his misshapen head. "Forbidden? Stories about me?"
Kirby shook her head, and she gazed absently as though t
he timber wall all around were invisible. "The stories about us." Tears trickled out of her eyes and tumbled down her otherwise stony face.
"About you?" Jingo asked.
Kirby holstered her pistol. She shoved the grenade into a row of others on her belt. She peeled off her overcoat and dropped it to the floor, then took off a heavy shirt. And then removed an undershirt. She turned around and pulled a final, dirty, shirt over her head, leaving her naked back exposed for all to see. Starting at her neck, and running down the length of her spine, small spore warts, each the size of an egg yolk, grew out of her vertebrae.
Chapter 24: William
Men and women chattered excitedly as they grabbed their packs, filled them with their belongings, and filed behind one another, forming a line that weaved between the fire pits and extended all the way outside the dome. From somewhere outside, William heard the whinnying of horses and the shouts of men passing along Winthrop's orders.
"We will march on Brighton, and free the ignorant of their comforting wall!" Winthrop shouted. "We will show them the ways of the blessed!"
Winthrop was buried amidst a circle of priests who were listening to his instructions by the fire. The men roared and thrust their swords and spears in the air.
Motivated by Winthrop's rousing words, a few men extinguished the fire while Winthrop's priestesses stood ready, listening or chatting with one another. William stood next to Jasmine. His mind swirled with a mixture of emotions.
"This is really it. This is the moment our god has chosen us for," Jasmine said with a smile.
"I know," said William.
He couldn't believe he was going back to Brighton. So much had happened in the wild that his memories of home were a blur. He could barely remember his friends, his room, or his neighbors. Were any of them still there? Had a rich merchant bought and sold his house? Flashes of emotion came back to him as he recalled that last, nervous day in Brighton. He and his mother had fled from soldiers and climbed the circle wall to escape. They'd spent the night in the forest in that strangely-layered ancient building. From the top of that building, where they could see over the tips of the trees, they'd watched the smoke rise from the Cleansings of the various towns and villages. William recalled the dying look on the soldier's face after Ella had stabbed him when they were attacked outside the buildings on the outskirts of town. That had been the moment he knew he was never going back.
And now he was.
He reminded himself that he was under Winthrop's protection now, and that he'd find a new role as one of Brighton's chosen. No one would persecute him with Blackthorn dead. They couldn't.
At least, he wanted to believe that.
"Brighton will be different when we get there," Jasmine said confidently, as if reading his thoughts and offering him reassurance.
William nodded.
"Here," Jasmine said, handing him one of two swords she carried. "Most of us carry two after the battle on the hill. I found an extra for you."
"Thanks," he said, smiling at her appreciatively, clutching the weapon.
Winthrop finished his speech, and the shuffle of feet began as the slow line of the army moved from the dome and out into the street. Phillip and the other priests clustered protectively around Winthrop, holding their swords as they ushered him outside. The priestesses surrounding William followed, with him next to them. From somewhere far behind, William could already hear the other half of the army starting the chant, boots stomping the earth as they caught up, skirting around the carcasses of dead demons. The sunlight glanced off William's face as they walked out from under the dome's expansive shadow and the priests stopped next to a row of horses that had been lined up in preparation. William and the line of people behind him stopped and waited.
Winthrop motioned to the horses, looking for the best one. He chose a tall, black steed that still seemed spooked. Several priests held the horse's reigns while Winthrop climbed onto the saddle, perching himself on the beast's back, his massive girth bunching up his robe.
"My priests!" he pronounced, motioning to the line of men. "Take your horses!"
William watched with envy as the men chose their animals and took hold of the reins. The sight of the majestic animals still entranced William. He recalled riding on a horse when he was younger and one of the cavalry had taken a liking to Ella. That had been after his father died. The man had gone off to war and never come back.
Phillip was one of the last to choose a horse—a brown animal with a white mane. The other priests had fallen into a row next to Winthrop, waiting. A final horse clomped its hooves nervously next to Phillip.
William was surprised when Phillip waved him over, pointing at the white horse next to him.
"Get on, Rowan," he called.
William's mouth fell open, but he didn't let his surprise stop him. He moved as quickly as he could, climbing onto the beast. He could feel the animal breathing heavily beneath him, but it didn't move, and it didn't shake him off. William clutched the reins and looked around, recalling the things the cavalry member had told him when he'd ridden several years ago.
Sit tall.
Be gentle with the reins.
William clenched his boots against the horse's sides. The horse fell into a trot.
And then they were marching behind the army on horseback, ten priests, Winthrop, and William, clopping over bent grass, boot prints, and the discarded pieces of demons, the only things that would be left behind of Winthrop's army in the Ancient City.
Chapter 25: Oliver
"All of us were marked by the spore," said Kirby as she pulled her coat back over her shoulders.
"You mean the people outside?" Beck asked, tactfully not calling them the dead people outside. "Or the ones where you came from?"
"The ones outside," answered Kirby. "I'm the only left still alive. I'm the last survivor."
"I've got questions." Jingo almost sounded like a pleading merchant's child.
"I've barely eaten since you people came." Kirby looked around at the eyes all staring at her. "I've been hiding from you instead of hunting. Do you have food?"
"We do," Jingo told her. He pointed to the chairs by the fireplace. "Let's sit and take off the night's chill." Jingo turned to Oliver. "Fetch us some of those squirrels Ivory killed yesterday. We can roast them over the fire while we talk."
The squirrels, the last of their meager stores, were hanging on a hook in a larder built into a corner of the cavernous space. Oliver hurried, not wanting to miss any question that Beck and Jingo would ask or any answer Kirby was going to give.
Jingo turned to Ivory. "With all the noise of Kirby's hand grenade, would you please go up and keep watch?"
Ivory looked at Kirby, and it was clear that he wanted to stay and hear every interesting thing she had to say.
"You know we need to keep safe," added Jingo.
Melora grudgingly tugged at Ivory's hand, pulling him toward the stairs. The two were becoming nearly inseparable.
"I assure you," said Jingo with a smile, "there'll be plenty of time for your questions as we each take our turns at the watch."
Ivory and Melora went upstairs.
When Oliver brought the skinned and cleaned squirrels over to the fire, Jingo, Beck, and Kirby were already sitting down.
"Do you mind cooking them?" Jingo asked.
"I will," answered Oliver as he busied himself skewering each animal with a stick to lean it over the flames.
Kirby took a long hard look at Jingo, and said, "You're really three hundred years old?"
"Yes," answered Jingo.
Kirby continued to stare at him, but didn't say any more about it.
Sensing her skepticism, Jingo said, "You're trying to decide whether I'm lying or not."
"No." Kirby slowly shook her head as her eyes drifted toward the fire. "It's hard to accept."
"Perhaps the spore mutated differently where you're from," said Jingo. "Did you come from across the ocean?"
Kirby nodded. "O
n those ships, yes."
"From another continent?"
"Yes."
Jingo said, "I figured the strain that infected me and every person on this continent cursed them with immortality."
Oliver looked back and forth between Jingo and Kirby, bewildered by the strange terminology.
Jingo stopped and thought about Kirby's answer. "No, the people on our continent are not immortal; we can be killed. We age very, very slowly, though. In all my years, I haven't seen any of my kind die of old age."
Kirby looked down as she opened her hands. She turned them over and examined the backs.
To Oliver, it looked like she was worrying that she'd turn out like Jingo, an ugly monster.
Jingo said, "I believe the spore causes a mutation in telomerase, a protein that keeps telomeres from fraying, hence keeping DNA from degrading as it reproduces, hence slowing aging."
Looking up at Jingo blankly, Kirby said, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're culture has lost its knowledge of molecular biology?" Jingo asked.
Still confused, Kirby said, "You use words that I don't know."
Beck smiled and injected himself into the conversation. "He does that to all of us."
Kirby smiled weakly at Beck and then refocused on Jingo. "Do you know how old I am?"
"How old were you when the spore infected you?" asked Jingo.
"Eighteen," answered Kirby.
"I'd guess you're twenty now," said Beck, looking her up and down and letting his eyes linger on her hips and breasts. "Maybe twenty-two."
Kirby shook her head.
"You got infected long ago?" Jingo guessed.
Kirby nodded. "Three years before we came here."
"Before you sailed here in those ships?" Jingo asked.
"We landed here fourteen years ago." Kirby looked at both Jingo and Beck, ready for them to challenge her count. Neither did. "We've been at war with what you call twisted men, or demons—and what I call mutants—ever since."
"You're thirty-five?" Oliver said, as he turned away from his cooking squirrels. "That's old."
