by Scott Hale
The mosquito lifted off Atticus’ shoulder. A pillar of smoke shot upwards, enveloping them. The shepherd shrieked. It tore its fingers out of his gum, pulled its fist from his lung.
Atticus fell. When he hit the ground, the image of the Membrane was dispelled. Arms his again, he pulled himself across the scorching earth, until he backed against something hard and boney. Ignoring it, he fumbled at the ground, for his machete.
“He’s mine,” the shepherd roared from somewhere in the gritty smoke.
A clicking laugh cut through the smoldering air. All at once, the smoke parted around Atticus and the shepherd stood aside. And there, framed by fire, Mr. Haemo stood, the six-foot mosquito’s frantic wings beating back the hungry blaze.
He lowered his skin hood, offered a claw to Atticus, and said, “Deus ex mosquito.”
“You can’t,” the shepherd shouted, breaking the stitching across its lips.
Mr. Haemo pulled back his claw and stepped over Atticus. He stood up to the shepherd and then knocked the hat off its head.
“You sure about that?” The giant mosquito bent down, so that his proboscis touched the shepherd’s chest. “Your kind are worse than my kids.”
The shepherd reached for its crook. Before it could grasp it, Mr. Haemo grabbed the shepherd by the crack in its head, where the memories and trinkets of Atticus’ clan were wedged. With a roar, the mosquito ripped open the shepherd’s head, sending its blond hair every-which-way. A deluge of imitations poured down its face. A lock of Clementine’s hair, a piece of Will’s jeans; an apron, wedding ring, and a flower; Will’s first lost tooth, fairy coin and all, and Clementine’s last letter, addressed to Vale. Where did it get these? Why did it have them?
The creature went limp and slumped to the ground. As the fire climbed over the shepherd’s corpse, it dissolved into orange dust.
Atticus was right enough to walk again, so he got up and grabbed his machete. He could hardly open his eyes, so bright was the blaze. He went the opposite way of Mr. Haemo, to where Blythe lay, burning like Bon had. He tore off the soldier’s cloak, beat the fire out of it, and threw it over his head and shoulders. Two trophies. One for each of you, he thought, appealing to his family, his brain bubbling like the fungal walls around him.
“Come to me,” Mr. Haemo shouted through the blackening smoke.
There was fire everywhere, enough to reduce the plantation to cinders, which was most likely Eldrus’ intent the entire time. Because he hadn’t had a shirt on, Atticus’ skin had been cooked to varying degrees. The heat was too hot to think straight. He found himself wandering, searching out spots where he wouldn’t roast completely if he stood there. Hopefully, Warren and the Beauties got out. They were good people. Or good bad people, at least.
Mr. Haemo buzzed through the choking, swirling death and grabbed Atticus by his arms. “Surprised to see me?”
“A bit.”
Mr. Haemo pulled Atticus close to his disgusting insect body. “Figured you would have gotten my not-so-subtle hints. Hold on tight.”
“Let me be, god damn it,” he said, unable to break free. He screamed as the fire climbed up his leg.
“There’s hope for you and yours yet.” Mr. Haemo’s wings became a buzzing blur. They started to lift him and Atticus off the ground. “Hear us out first, before you pitch a fit?”
“Us?”
Atticus’ feet left the floor. They rose to the ceiling. He looked over his shoulder, to the hole the vermillion hand had grown out of.
“You and Gary. You lied to me, you fuckers.”
Mr. Haemo dove through the flames, towards the metal door that led outside. Atticus dangled from the creature’s claws, which were a few inches deep into his skin. A searing itch of pain shot through his body as small fires started on his feet and thighs. He beat himself against himself, against the fungal walls. All this skin was getting in his way, he thought, the basement rushing past him, a blinding orange blur of spores and secrets. If only he could do without it, this skin.
Atticus gasped as they flew past the metal doors, into the backyard. The air froze his bones. Mr. Haemo brought them to the slave quarters and landed. He pulled his claws out of Atticus. With a quick whisper, the blood slithered up his claws and into his proboscis.
Taking a deep breath, Atticus fell to his knees and screamed. Every inch of him hurt so bad he couldn’t help but cry. When he had hope, when he had purpose, he’d been able to suffer through the suffering. But not now, not anymore.
Carpenter Plantation moaned as its roof buckled and caved in upon itself. Waves of fire shot out of the house’s crackling corpse. The second floor sagged, slouched. The third split, slid forward, crushing the porch and the bodies on the front yard. Smoke exploded upward and joined its thick, entwined brethren blackening the night sky.
“Falling apart so fast… you’d think the house wanted this,” Mr. Haemo said. He threw the flesh hood over his head and added, “Here come your cronies.”
Out of the smoke, several people ran. Cabalists, he realized, as he tried to rub the sting out of his eyes. Mr. Haemo made a sound behind him. When he looked back, he found the mosquito had vanished into one of the rickety, run-down cabins behind them.
“Can’t be seen, not yet,” Mr. Haemo said from the shadows of the slave quarter. “Might want to cover up yourself.”
Atticus fell back on his heels. He unfastened Blythe’s cloak and dropped it beside him. He took off Bon’s glove and rested it in the grass. By the hellish light, he read himself as he would a map, touching every bleeding landmark that gave definition to his body. Gallows: A rotting crater in his chest, surrounded by faint scars from days past only he could see. Bedlam: A stretch of necrosis from foot to thigh, with a slit-neck crowning his arrow riddled torso. Cathedra: A bruised wasteland of skin, charred and tendon-tight, cut to the quick, down to the deflated lung sacs like smashed mushroom caps. He would heal, but he wouldn’t forget, just as a land doesn’t forget the wars waged upon it. Will wouldn’t have seen the scars, Atticus figured, but a woman’s eyes, Clementine’s eyes, peered much deeper. She would’ve seen them and thought differently of him. The notion alone hurt more than the violence chronicled in his skin.
The cabalists were coming. Gary was among them. He’d grab the ghoul by his neck when he was close enough and choke the truth from him. But maybe Blythe had lied. Maybe they were still down there, in ashes, or bound up, boxed up, bobbing along whatever road the carriages took. It had all happened so god damn fast. And then there was the shepherd, who died by diabolical intervention. What for? How come?
Atticus gripped the grass and howled. This isn’t over, he thought, face quivering between a sneer and a smile. Though he had nothing but the word of the monster who’d murdered his family, he decided that they hadn’t been there; couldn’t have been there. They would live again, where the living belonged. Not where the dead were digested and shat out into the infinite unknown.
Atticus smiled and sneered, sneered and smiled. He wiped his nose and told his soul to stop its ramblings. Hungry as it was—he laughed and stood, drenched in sweat, and grabbed his trophies—it would have to wait.
“At-Atticus?”
That had been James’ voice. Atticus hunched forward and squinted. He didn’t know most of the faces of the approaching cabalists, and the dark sure wasn’t helping any. But, wait, there he was. James. And Hex. But she looked different. Not so cock-sure. She hadn’t found her brother, he reckoned. If she had, she’d left what remained of him inside the house to burn.
James went ahead of the cabalists, shouldering past a large shape that must’ve been Warren.
“Are you okay?” At arm’s length, James stopped and gasped. “Atticus, what the hell happened to you?”
Atticus ignored him, focusing instead on James’ arm and hand. His Corruption was patchy, marred by defensive wounds. His hand looked like a fist, but that was only because he was missing most of the fingers on it.
“I guess I’ll have to get
good with my other hand.” He forced out a laugh. Eyes widening, he said, “Did you find them?”
Atticus stared at James, teared-up, and said, “No. No, I didn’t.”
Gasps, whispers. Those cabalists who didn’t know him were close enough to see the extent of Atticus’ wounds. Not including Warren, Elizabeth, and Miranda, who were at the rear of the group, only four cabalists remained of the twenty-five brought here, and there wasn’t much left of them, either.
“Gary,” Atticus said, calling him out.
The ghoul didn’t respond, nor did he move. He just stood there, slack-jawed, mouth still blood-wetted from a mid-battle snack. With a dead gaze, he appealed to Hex beside him. She shook her head, turned to Warren, and whispered something that made the others, Warren and the Beauties included, disperse.
“You all have been treating me like a god damn fool.” It took everything Atticus had to hold back from going off. “Gary.” He sighed. “Gary, you haven’t been right since the ritual.”
Hex stirred. Her eyes turned a darker shade of blue; her braids tightened.
James went sideways, looking back and forth between the ghoul and Atticus. Then he stopped and craned his neck toward the cabin where Mr. Haemo hid; strange noises were coming out of it.
If he waited for Gary to say it, they’d be there all night, so Atticus said it. “They’re not here. They never were. Where are they?” He walked past James, and got in Gary’s face. “You said you couldn’t bring them back because the soldiers took their bodies.”
He prodded his finger against the ghoul’s ribcage. “They’re not here. And you knew it this whole god damn fucking time.”
Atticus slammed his palms into Gary, pushing him to the ground. “What did you and that fucking mosquito do to my family?” He stood over his friend like an executioner would a prisoner on the chopping block. “You lied to me. You’ve never lied to me before. What the fuck did you do, then? Answer me!”
“I’m… I’m sorry.” Gary crawled backwards. Carefully, hands out in case Atticus came after him, he got back on his feet. “I don’t know why I did what I did. I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t want to hurt you. Man, I swear it, I didn’t. We did, we did bring them back.” The ghoul nodded; a centipede crawled out of his nose and into his mouth.
“Gary,” James said, breathily.
A crash came out of Carpenter Plantation. The house coughed a fireball at the smug moon on high.
“You did?” Atticus’ heart started to beat fast. “Were they not like me? What happened?” And as he finished asking the question, his mind went ahead and gave him the answer. “Shepherds.”
Gary nodded and said, “The shepherds, yeah. It worked, they were fine. I did what you asked. I helped them first. They were fine. Out of it, but they were okay. We dusted them off and put them to bed and went to work on you. The shepherds came and grabbed them in the night. Only caught a glimpse of them and then they were gone.
“Atticus, listen, I didn’t know about them, the shepherds. And Mr. Haemo, he said he forgot, wasn’t even sure if they were still around. He’s a son of a bitch, but he loves that blood well. And resurrection rituals drain it quicker than anything else.”
“I don’t care about that,” Atticus hollered. “That’s why there were no corpses. You left Clementine and Will alone and the shepherds took them, body and soul, back to the Membrane.” He raised his hand to strike Gary, but stopped himself, knowing it would do him no good, at least for right now. “Why didn’t you tell me? You wasted my time!”
“You weren’t supposed to come back,” Gary shouted. He panted as his words rung out across the yard and surrounding forest. “We tried for days to reach you. Nothing. No signs. Nothing. The blood well was breaking down. We had to stop.” Gary started to smell the air, to smell, undoubtedly, the presence of Mr. Haemo. “But the words finally took, delayed as they were, and you came crawling out.
“I wanted you back. You’re my best friend, Atticus. But when we couldn’t reach you, I thought, well, maybe that was best. You’d be with them. But then there you were. I had to say something.”
“The truth. I would’ve appreciated the truth,” Atticus growled. “What did you think was going to happen when we got here? Did you think I’d die before I found out? Is that what you thought? You selfish shit. Were you going to eat me when this curse of mine gave out? Prolong your living some?”
Where was his machete? He looked around for a weapon. His soul was hungry, and though Gary had no life to take, he could make do with the scraps left in that corpse of his.
“Atticus, wait,” James started.
“Shut the fuck up, James,” Atticus snapped back.
“I thought I could buy some time.” Gary took a few steps backward. “I thought Mr. Haemo could find another solution. I don’t have a good answer. I thought if I told you, you’d kill yourself.”
“You didn’t tell me about the shepherd until it came for me.” Atticus grabbed the ghoul by his throat. He pushed his thumb through the open airway and hooked it on a tendon. “Until I fought it off. And you knew it would come.”
Voice choked, Gary muttered, “I am selfish. I wanted you with me. And then, sometimes, I thought it would be better to let you get your revenge on Blythe and Bon and have the shepherd take you. I didn’t know you’d be fucking un-killable.” He took Atticus by the back of his hair. “So many things are happening that could lead us to them. Kill me if you want. I would. I’m not going to lie. If I knew it’d bring back my wife… my daughters… I would. I’d kill all of you. I know how you feel. God, how I miss them. But I have you, and having you helps getting me through.
“Listen, these things… I can—”
Atticus squeezed harder on his throat.
“–There may be another way. Hear Hex out. Please.”
Atticus let go of Gary and gave him one final push, like the dumbass kid he was supposed to have outgrown. He lumbered towards Hex, and she met him halfway, her pupils bluer than ever.
“I knew there was something about you I didn’t like.”
Hex’s cheek quivered. An ash landed on her lip and melted there like snow. Close enough to bite his nose off, she said, “Don’t start with me, Gravedigger. Your friend didn’t tell me or James his little secret. My loved one wasn’t there, either. You aren’t the only one suffering.”
Hear her out, Clementine whispered in Atticus’ ear. He stopped breathing and shed a tear. The mood swings were coming too quickly to predict, and the madness propelling them too strong to stifle. Get ahold of yourself, Dad, Will scolded.
“We’ve been talking behind your back. That is true.” Hex’s eyes dimmed. “But Gary didn’t tell me or James what had happened to your family. I was rooting for you the whole way.”
“Appreciate it,” Atticus said. He gave Hex some space.
“I don’t know where Ichor is. If I hadn’t waited for you, he might still be here. I’m trying not to blame you and your friends for that, but it’s hard.” For the first time, she showed James an unkind look. “But this wasn’t always about a break-out.
“Eldrus has gotten too big for its britches.” Hex spat out some blood. She had lost a tooth during the battle. “And King Edgar has lost his mind. He’s brought more than just that boy back from the Nameless Forest. Warren told me what you saw in the basement. Vermillion veins. Nameless Forest. Like I said.”
Atticus shook his head.
Again, a noise came out of the cabin, as though Mr. Haemo was getting impatient.
“Carpenter Plantation is the beginning. The first meaningful punch from the Heartland since Eldrus started this fight. You know they’re doing this in other places. It isn’t that much of a stretch of the imagination.
“But this isn’t my gig, Gravedigger. I’m a hired hand, like you were to me. My benefactors’ reach far extends my own. It’s pure coincidence things have gone the way they have. I was going to ask you this, what I’m about to say, regardless. So don’t go thinking I’m trying t
o exploit your family. I don’t want to have to kick your ass in front of everyone.”
“I don’t want your lip right now. What do you need?” Atticus threw his arms into the air. His side wounds stretched and shot out blood. “Are you saying you can get me into the Membrane?” He looked at Gary and James. “Is that what she’s saying? That’s all I care about.”
A murmur broke out between the cabalists, Warren, and the Beauties. They were listening, overhearing everything. Atticus finally noticed that Francis wasn’t among them.
“You have a gift. Curse, gift, whatever. A man who can’t die, who can take the worst beating and shrug it off, is a man to get behind. It was going to be Warren, but he and I don’t think that’s right. From what I heard, you have a following in Gallows. And you were on every lip in Bedlam. And you can be sure you’ll be the talk of the town in Cathedra tomorrow.”
Hex sighed and came out with it. “We’re going to Eldrus. We’re going straight to Ghostgrave. I’m not asking you to lead but to lend your image to us. You’re an inspiration. I can’t think of a stronger symbol than one that cannot be killed.
“Gary told me about all the occult crap they’ve got stored up there in Ghostgrave, and now that I know he’s been scamming you, I know why. And I’ve heard the stories, too. Come with us. Do some fighting, some inspiring, and you can have it all.”
Atticus couldn’t help it: he started to laugh and shake his head, causing Hex to shrink before him. “I’m not… I ain’t leading some fucking rebellion. I don’t have the constitution or care to do it. And I sure as hell don’t have the time it would take.” He stopped for a moment and saw that she was sincere. “Why you going to Ghostgrave?”
“To kill King Edgar,” she said plainly. “I reckon you’re not the only one who has qualms with him and his men. Listen, I also know you’re not the charitable type, but revenge gets you hard like the rest of us maniacs. I guarantee you, you’re not the only one missing your family right now. But I’m pretty sure you might be the only one among them who can do a damned thing about it.”
