by Bobby Adair
Melora jammed a full magazine into the underside of her rifle and laid the barrel across the log, leveling it as she found her next target. She pulled the trigger and fired at a beast. The creature pitched forward and hit the ground face first.
Melora shifted slightly left and fired again. Blood exploded from a demon's shoulder as it spun and went down. But that one would be back up. Melora was learning the difference between a kill shot and a wound, and she silently chastised herself for the poor aim.
Every bullet was of a limited supply, of which she expected to run out at any moment.
With every pull of the trigger, it felt like her finger was straining under a heavy weight. She'd never have guessed in all her life she could do something so many times, so quickly, that she'd cramp her finger. And her shoulder flared fire each time the rifle's butt punched back with the gun's recoil.
Melora, along with Ivory and Oliver, were killing demons on a scale that eclipsed her imagination many times over. The sloping pasture was covered with so many dead that only a few strands of the knee-high grass still stood, and even those were stained red.
Still, the demons peeled off from the larger mass assaulting the main gate and crossed nearly a mile of pasture for their chance to tear violently into the shooters.
"It looks like no more demons are coming from the right!" Ivory announced next to Melora, giving her a hint of hope. It seemed like they'd killed all the ones that had been skirting the circle wall, looking for an alternate entrance to Brighton.
Twice since the shooting started, Jingo had pitched hand grenades to kill large bands of demons who'd managed to get too close. Each time it happened, both Beck and Ivory threw grenades, as well. Melora and Oliver were told not to, as neither could throw the weighty little bombs far enough to avoid endangering themselves.
"Those demons are gone, but there are many more. When will they stop coming?" Oliver called from where he was shooting, echoing Melora's thoughts.
"Just keep firing!" shouted Beck.
Melora fired again, crying out as her shoulder flared pain. Suddenly Jingo was on a knee beside Melora. "Are you okay?"
Melora fired, blew out the back of a demon's skull, and quickly shot again, "My shoulder hurts!"
"You're doing a good job."
Melora nodded and kept shooting.
"We're going to make it," Jingo told her. "War is terrible. Don't lose hope."
"I'm okay!" Melora yelled. She knew that if she stopped fighting, she'd die. Only living people felt pain.
"Who's that?" asked Oliver, as he squeezed off another round.
Melora glanced left and paused for a moment, trying to understand what Oliver was seeing. She saw a glimmer of movement in between some demons that looked like a human.
Her first thought was that the vanguard of Blackthorn's cavalry was charging out of the woods. Melora nearly shed tears of relief, thinking she and the others were saved.
But no cavalry followed that first rider as he swung his sword, racing through the mass of surprised demons coming at Melora.
She kept shooting the monsters as she watched the rider, thinking he was an even braver idiot than she was, tearing through all those twisted men, untouched by their teeth and tearing fingers.
But he had a familiar look to him.
He—
Melora gasped.
It couldn't be.
Bray!
That murdering piece of pig shit!
Melora didn't ask herself what he was doing all of a sudden in the middle of the battle. She didn't speculate as to how he'd managed to steal a horse. No question was as important as the hatred she felt for him, and how completely that hate made all her fear of the coming horde seem like an irritant that could be ignored. She switched her aim to Bray.
Shooting demons was easy. They ran directly at her in a bloodthirsty frenzy. They were targets, and once she sawed them down, her barrel didn't swerve, didn't juke.
Bray was different. He rode across her field of vision left to right, galloping and swerving around demons, swinging his sword. He wouldn't stay still for her.
"Who's that?" Oliver asked.
She didn't answer.
Before anyone else could ask, Melora fired.
Bray carried on, unfazed.
She lined up her rifle sight and fired again.
Missed.
She silently cursed and redirected her fire at the closest of the demons that were still charging her position. She killed several, and guessed she had a few brief seconds to try again for Bray before he got too far away.
Melora aimed again, taking her time. Bray paused, looking toward the log from which she, Ivory, and Oliver shot their weapons, probably wondering what the hell he was seeing and hearing. Melora pulled the trigger.
Bray lurched back with the impact. His arms flew out as he pitched back off the saddle.
His horse reared and started trampling demons as it panicked.
Through all the demons between them, Melora couldn't see if Bray got back to his feet, but one thing she saw for sure was that he didn't remount his horse, and that meant that even if the bullet didn't kill him, he was as good as dead.
Without a trace of guilt for what she'd just done and with no time to revel in the satisfaction of justice delivered, she went back to killing demons. Oliver seemed to have redirected his focus to the battle.
For Ella, she thought, gritting her teeth.
Chapter 91: Bray
Bray felt an invisible punch that toppled him from his horse.
His shoulder screamed pain.
At the last second, he clutched the reins, saving himself from landing on his head, but the air exploded from his lungs as he hit the grass on his back.
The horse bolted, dragging him across the ground next to it with demons all around.
He'd gotten a glimpse of Melora, Ivory, and some kid, holding guns as they hid in the nearby trees, and he'd seen Melora aiming at him. He guessed he'd been shot, like those demons he'd seen fall under Kirby's gun. But none of that mattered now, because the twisted men would surely rip him apart before he'd have the chance to think about it again, or his horse would stomp him to death. He'd never see William again.
Bray cried out as his legs slid underneath the horse and demons lunged for his flesh. The horse whinnied and reared up, stomping demons in front of it, spraying Bray with blood and knocking back a few of the twisted men. Bray pulled his legs away to avoid a crushing hoof, but he kept hold of the reins.
The horse was panicked and about to flee again.
That might be his only chance to get out of the tangle of demons.
The horse broke into a gallop, and Bray cried out as he was dragged again through the unforgiving grass, sliding over bodies of dead demons and slick patches blood, doing his best to keep hold of the reins. His body ached from dozens of new bruises as he was battered against the ground. He had no control.
He managed to hold on for a few seconds, escaping the immediate mob of demons, and then he lost his grip and fell.
He watched the horse gallop past hungry, pawing twisted men, and into the forest, which was only twenty yards away, and then he was alone, lying on his side. Bray grunted and turned his head.
His sword was gone.
He hadn't gotten far enough.
Demons encircled him. He searched frantically for a weapon, but all he saw was a mass of stomping, bare feet and wart-covered bodies. One of the demons shrieked in triumph as it reached him, tugging at his boots. Another lunged for his face.
The demons were going to kill him.
Bray felt a surge of anger as the demons surrounded him with open mouths and tearing hands. His coming death should have been fitting for a man that had spent his life killing the demons.
But it didn't feel so fitting now.
Chapter 92: William
Men were screaming all around. Odd thunder rolled through the daylight sky. Demons howled. Blades thunked into skulls and blood spewed, coating ev
erything in red, giving the air a taste of death.
The blood was life, someone else's life, leaving the body as the soul sank to that dark place where nightmares are born, never to breathe under a blue sky again.
William knew that taste of blood well, remembering it from his first kill on the mountain the night that Bray had robbed and abandoned him and his mother.
As it was now, the blood was warm on his skin, and in a perverse way, it felt like power.
But it was sick power, coming only from a brutality and hate so strong that it felt like a spike through his heart every time it spilled.
It was a tempting power, too. Each time William felt it, it beckoned him to try and kill again, to lean in close and feel a man's last breath wash over his face as the man's eyes went glassy and false, as the man's heart stopped beating, and the enemy turned from man to meat.
Warm to cold.
Loud to quiet.
Something to nothing.
A new memory to haunt tomorrow's dreams.
One of Winthrop's priestesses lay on the ground beside William, shrieking and fighting as one of his demon brothers ripped at her throat.
All around him, the priestesses and Winthrop's closest priests fought desperately against the demons overwhelming them.
Farther away, the unbreakable iron circle of Winthrop's chosen soldiers had disintegrated. A thousand men, the last of those who'd fought together like a single, brutal beast, keeping their enemies in front of them where their sharp swords could do their butchery, were now individuals, surrounded and outnumbered, giving the power of their warm blood to those who took it.
At the center of the battle stood William, untouched by beast and man, watching as a dozen of his demon brothers surrounded Winthrop's wild-eyed horse. It kicked and bucked, charged in fits, and stomped, all the while throwing a blubbering Winthrop back and forth in the saddle.
With a face stretched in desperation, Winthrop held on, knowing hell surrounded him in the gnashing teeth of the tormenting demons.
He bellowed his cowardice for all to hear.
It was sad to see such a majestic horse terrorized out of its mind, saddled with a mountain of useless lard. William didn't want to see the beast injured. He didn't want to see it killed, but Winthrop was on its saddle, and Winthrop had to die for what he'd done to Jasmine and Phillip.
For what he'd done to Brighton.
A demon leaped at the horse, trying to gouge at its eye.
The beast, though, had better instincts, and it reared high to avoid the attacking demon.
It happened at a bad time for Winthrop, who was still recovering his balance from the horse's last dodge. Winthrop lost his grip on the pommel, and as the horse went near vertical on its hind legs, Winthrop rolled back and somersaulted backward over the horse's tail, smashing onto the corpse of one of his dead priestesses on the ground.
The horse, suddenly relieved of its burden, bolted through the demons, running for the forest and safety.
William stepped closer as his demon brothers engulfed Winthrop, biting and tearing.
Winthrop struggled and shrieked.
William wondered if his demon brothers understood his wish for vengeance, or whether their bloodlust was just running so high that they were acting on their own.
As if to answer him, one of the demons jumped to its feet, came off of Winthrop, and hurried over to William.
It reached out, took William's hand, leaned over, and spit something into William's palm.
Surprised, William caught a bloody gob as warm spit oozed over his fingers.
He recoiled as he stared at the lump in his hand, a dribbling mess with two huge, hairy nostrils in a roughly triangular shape. Winthrop's huge nose. Horror struck William as he dropped it on the ground and stepped away.
This wasn't how he'd pictured vengeance.
He looked down at the bleeding, mucous-covered mess.
This was a horror worse than Brighton, worse than the burnings.
Another and another demon hopped up to bring gifts he hadn't asked for, but William kept backing away as the demons piled up things around his retreating feet: an ear, a finger, and then a toe.
William looked at Winthrop, who was screaming so unceasingly he barely had time to breathe.
That made William scream, too.
The demons stopped what they were doing, confused, and stepped away from Winthrop, leaving him alive, blubbering loudly with most of his fingers, his nose, and ears gone.
They didn't understand William's reaction.
They were following William's instructions, even if he hadn't spoken them.
Winthrop moaned, sounding more like a dying demon than a man. He had a long time of suffering ahead of him before dying.
William couldn't watch any more. He ran.
Chapter 93: Bray
Bray kicked at the demons around him, punching and flailing, but his efforts were useless. For every one he beat back, another took its place. The wound in his shoulder had robbed him of good use of his left arm. He couldn't get to his feet. The demons had him pinned. He cried out as one of the demons tore off a piece of his shirt, scratching his skin. Hot demon breath filled the air and savage hands clawed at his clothes.
Is this how it ends?
He'd failed Ella, and now he'd failed William too.
Gunfire.
A few of the demons lifted their bulbous heads and turned to look.
One of them shrieked as half its head exploded.
Bray had a moment of hope before a dead demon fell on top of him, and then another. He cried out and pushed at the prone bodies, hit with a new fear—he might suffocate under their dead weight. More and more demons toppled onto him, crushing his ribs. He pushed with his good arm, managing to get a few off, but there were too many and they were too heavy. Bray yelled and struggled, afraid he was wasting the last of his breath.
A voice he recognized shouted his name.
Suddenly, the weight on top of him subsided. He looked up through his haze to find Kirby pulling demons off him, a scowl on her face. "You idiot! What did you think was going to happen, running out there like that?"
Bray caught enough breath to answer. "I was going to get—"
"Enough."
She let go of him long enough to raise her gun and aim at an approaching demon, exploding its head with her Tech Magic, and then she tugged at Bray's good arm. To the left, the battle continued raging near the Brighton gates. To the right, gunfire continued to explode.
"You're going to have to run, because I can't carry you."
"I can stand," he said with pride.
Bray winced through the pain and got to his feet.
Dying demons were all around.
"You need to teach me how to use that gun," he said, motioning at the metal object in her hand.
"Are you going to gawk at it, or are we going to get away?"
With some struggle and Kirby's help, Bray managed to hurry back toward the trees. He looked for some sign of William, but he was gone. He hadn't caught a glimpse of him since that first, initial peek through the trees. He didn't see any sign of Melora, Ivory, or the kid, either.
"You're lucky I didn't leave you, after you were shot," Kirby said.
"Did you see William?"
"I caught a few glimpses, after those demons attacked the man in the robe."
"Was it Winthrop they were attacking?" Bray asked.
"I'm not sure who it was. But afterward, William ran off in the trees."
"If it was Winthrop, he deserved it," Bray said with disgust. "Where are the rest of the horses?"
"In the woods, tied up," Kirby said. "I even managed to corral the one you lost. Let's go!"
They stepped over the bodies of dead, blood-printed men and women, avoiding a few demons that were in their death throes. About ten yards from the forest, Bray paused and hunched down next to the body of a dead man, grabbing the sword lying next to him. And then Kirby tugged his arm, leading him across the
remaining steps of the field and into the forest, away from the battle that was still raging between Winthrop's men, the demons, and anyone in Brighton foolish enough to step outside the wall.
Chapter 94: William
William ran without looking back, fleeing the field with its gore, blood, and bodies. His hands were stained red with Winthrop's blood. He wiped them on his pants as he balanced his knife, running from the field and into the trees, pushing away the sound of Winthrop's screaming and the images of pieces of him piled on the ground. He didn't want to think about it any longer. He couldn't.
Winthrop would die from what the demons had done.
William had given the command.
He'd made the decision, and he didn't regret it—he'd done it for Brighton, and for all the people Winthrop had killed. But William felt no vindication in Winthrop's impending death. He felt hollow.
Warm to cold.
Loud to quiet.
Something to nothing.
But still alive.
That image was terrifying. And underneath the satisfaction of bloodlust was a strange sense of emptiness. He hadn't brought Phillip or Jasmine back.
The call of blood was too tempting to ignore. And it would keep calling, as long as William was with the demons. They would follow his orders, but to what end? At their core, they were beasts, just like the animals in the wild, driven by instinct and the need to feast. They would never show him the kindness that he'd received from Jasmine or Phillip.
He didn't want to be like them. He couldn't.
He needed to get away. He needed to protect himself. He clutched his knife in his hand as he kept running.
Several of his brothers ran next to him, looking over at him for orders, but he waved them off.
"Go!" he shouted.
He realized his hands were shaking. Confusion crossed the demon's faces as they stopped running, heeding his orders. They resisted the urge to follow, much as he resisted the urge to stay with them.
They were his brethren.
But he couldn't be with them anymore.
William kept running, the scent of Winthrop's coppery blood in his nostrils, as he fled farther and farther into the trees.
