by Terry Brooks
“It is the thing that comes to kill us,” Candle said quickly. She was shivering, hugging herself as she stared out at the lights. “It is the thing from my vision.”
Owl reached out for her and turned her around so that she was no longer looking at the lights. “Just look at me, Candle,” she said softly. She waited until the little girl stopped shaking. “Can you do that?”
Candle nodded. “I won’t look anymore.”
“Good.” Owl glanced around at the others. “Whatever it is, Candle is right. We need to get as far away from it as we can. Has anyone seen any sign of Sparrow or Panther?”
No one had. Chalk and Fixit were arguing about who should take the front end of the Weatherman’s litter. River stalked over angrily, pushed Chalk aside, and picked it up herself.
“Owl says we have to go. Fixit, pick up your end.” She glared at Chalk. “You can push the wheelchair for a while since you’re so tired.”
They started off once more, still climbing inland from the waterfront, having followed First Avenue to within sight of the Hammering Man before turning uphill toward the freeway entrance. It was there that the Knight of the Word had told them they would find his vehicle and should wait for him to join them. Owl hoped he would hurry. She was growing steadily more worried about being separated from Sparrow and Panther. It was bad enough to lose Hawk and maybe Tessa, but unbearable to think of losing the other two, as well. The Ghosts were a family, and as mother of this family she didn’t feel right when the group wasn’t together.
“Chalk, are you really too tired for this?” she asked quietly so that the others could not hear. She looked back at him. “Do you need a rest? Maybe Candle can fill in for a few minutes if you need to take a break.”
“I’m not tired,” the boy said, refusing to admit anything, glancing over at River for just a minute before looking away again. “I can do anything that anyone else can and do it better. Especially her.”
Even in flight and in danger, they squabbled like the children they were, Owl thought. But they loved and would do anything for one another. Wasn’t that true of all families, whatever their nature and circumstances? Wasn’t that a large part of what defined them as families?
They continued their climb toward the top of the hill and the freeway entrance, following the sidewalk, angling between piles of debris and derelict vehicles. The darkened, mostly empty buildings formed huge walls to either side, leaving them layered in shadows and silence. A cold wind blew up the concrete-and-stone canyons, coming off the water in damp gusts, carrying the smell of pitch from the torches. The drums throbbed in steady rhythm, the sound deep and ominous.
“I’m not scared,” Squirrel murmured into Owl’s shoulder.
She gave him a quick hug. “Of course you aren’t.”
They reached the freeway entrance, a long curving concrete ramp littered with rusted-out cars and trucks, some still whole, some in pieces. Owl looked expectantly for Logan Tom’s Lightning S-150 AV, having no idea what it was she was seeking, but knowing it wouldn’t be like anything else. Her efforts were in vain. Everything appeared the same to her. Nothing but junk and trash.
“It’s over there,” Fixit announced.
Because he was carrying one end of the Weatherman’s litter, he couldn’t point, only nod, so none of them was sure what he was indicating. Owl looked in the general direction of his nod, but didn’t see anything.
“It’s behind that semi-trailer, over there by the pileup,” Fixit continued. “See the big tires? That’s a Lightning AV.”
Owl was willing to take his word for it, even though she still didn’t see anything. Fixit knew a lot about the vehicles his elders had ridden in before almost everything on wheels stopped working. The source of his knowledge was something of a mystery given that he read so little and was content looking at pictures in old magazines, but she supposed it had to do with his mechanical nature.
She looked doubtfully at the abandoned vehicles, clusters of them stretching away down the ramp and onto the freeway for as far as the eye could see. It made her wonder what that last day had been like when the owners had simply abandoned them. It made her wonder what had happened to those people, all those years ago, when the city began to change.
Mostly it made her nervous about what might be down there that they couldn’t see. Lots of things made their homes in old vehicles, and you didn’t want to disturb them.
Still, they had no choice. They couldn’t afford to wait where they were, so far from where Logan Tom had told them to be. Not unless they were threatened, and as yet, the only threat came from the waterfront behind them.
“Lead us down, Fixit,” she told him, trying to keep the reluctance from her voice. “But everyone stay together and keep a close eye out for anything that might be hiding in those wrecks. Candle? Warn us if you sense anything.”
They started down the ramp, a strange little procession, Fixit and River at the forefront carrying the litter with the Weatherman, Candle right behind, Bear following with the heavy cart, and Chalk, pushing Owl and Squirrel in the wheelchair, bringing up the rear. There was a pale wash of light from the distant compound, the walls of which they could just begin to see, and from the torches beginning to close on the docks of the bay. The drums still beat, and now there were shouts and cries, the sounds of a battle being fought. She heard weapons fire, as well.
Her thoughts drifted to those still missing. She hoped that Sparrow was well away by now. She shouldn’t have given her permission to go up on the roof for that final check; she should have made her come with the rest of them. She wondered about Panther and Logan Tom and about Hawk and Tessa. Too many people missing, too many ways for them to get hurt in what was happening down there.
Everything is changing, she thought without knowing exactly why she felt it was so. But the thought persisted. Nothing will ever be the same again after this night.
She thought suddenly of their home, of how cozy it had been. She remembered cooking for the others in her tiny, makeshift kitchen. She remembered telling them her stories of the boy and his children. She could picture them sitting around the room, listening intently, their faces rapt. She could hear their voices and their laughter. She could see herself tucking Squirrel and Candle in for the night, their faces sleepy and peaceful as she wrapped their blankets around them. She remembered the quiet moments she had shared with Hawk, neither of them speaking, both of them knowing without having to say so what the other was thinking.
No, nothing would ever be the same. She glanced around, looking at each of them in turn. The best she could hope for was that they would be able to stay together and stay safe…
She stopped herself suddenly, aware that something was wrong. She counted heads quickly, certain that she must be mistaken, that she had simply missed him.
But there was no mistake. Cheney was missing. The big wolf dog, there only a moment earlier it seemed, was nowhere in sight.
Where was he?
She started to ask the others, and then stopped. In the shadows of the broken-down vehicles ahead, dark shapes were emerging into the light, crawling out of the wrecks.
Not just a few, but dozens.
THREE
T IME STOPPED, an intransigent presence.
But at the same time, it seemed that it fled in the wake of their pounding footsteps on the city concrete, another frightened child.
Panther was ahead when they reached the T-intersection at the end of the alleyway Sparrow had sent them down, and he drew up short, uncertain which way to go.
“Go left,” she ordered as she came up behind him, her breathing quick and uneven.
He did what he was told, unwilling to argue the matter. He could tell she was beginning to fail, her strength depleted from their struggle with the Croaks and her own physical limitations. She was younger than him, and her endurance was limited. She would never admit it, not to him and probably not to anyone else. Sparrow, with her dead warrior mother and her legacy of self-expect
ations, he sneered to himself. Frickin’ bull.
But he held back anyway, just enough to let her keep pace. He didn’t look around, didn’t do anything to indicate he knew she was tiring, just slowed so that she could stay close. Say what you wanted to about that girl, she was a tough little bird. She gave him a hard time, but she was a Ghost and no Ghost ever abandoned another. Didn’t matter how much she bugged him; he would never leave her behind.
They reached the end of the alley and emerged onto a street filled with swarming forms that had come up from the docks and the waterfront and maybe the square, as well. Spiders and Lizards and Croaks and some others Panther had never seen before in his short life—things dark and misshapen—all of them massed together as they ascended the hill to get away from the battle being fought below.
“Must be bad down there for this to happen!” he declared, catching Sparrow by the arm as she almost raced past him into the surging throng.
He had never seen anything like it. Normally these creatures, their strange neighbors, kept carefully apart from one another. Some, like the Lizards and the Croaks, were natural enemies, fighting each other for food and territory. Not today. Today the only thought, it seemed, was to escape a common enemy.
“What now?” he demanded.
Wordlessly, Sparrow turned back into the alleyway, and they retreated down the darkened corridor to a pair of metal-clad doors. Panther didn’t ask what she was doing. Sparrow never did anything unknowingly. He watched as she climbed a short set of steps to the doors and wrenched on the handles. The doors opened with a groan, but only several inches. Sparrow pulled harder, but the doors held.
From deeper inside the alleyway, a handful of shadowy figures lumbered into view, coming out of the T-intersection and turning toward them.
Panther went up the steps in a rush. “Let me try,” he said, all but elbowing her aside. He heaved against the recalcitrant doors, and they moved another few inches. Rust had done its work. “What’s in here, anyway?”
“Hotel,” she answered, shoving him back to let him know she didn’t appreciate his aggressive attitude. “Connects to buildings farther up through underground tunnels. We can avoid all the Freaks if we can get inside.”
“Big if, looks like,” he said, hauling back again, straining against the handle. “Isn’t there some other way?”
She surprised him by laughing. “What’s the matter, mighty Panther Puss?” she taunted. “Cat’s on the wrong side of the door and can’t get in?”
He tightened his lips, grunted as he heaved against the door, and wrenched it all the way open. “Ain’t nowhere I can’t get in!”
They slipped inside ahead of their pursuers and followed a short corridor to a down stairway. Sparrow, leading now, switched on her solar-powered torch to give them light in the blackness, and they descended the stairwell to the long, broad corridor below. The corridor ran straight ahead before branching. Sparrow didn’t hesitate in choosing their path, turning left for a short distance to a second fork, then turning right. Panther followed without comment, his finger on the trigger of his prod, his eyes sweeping the dark corners of the spaces they passed through.
From somewhere farther back, he could hear the Croaks again, shuffling their way after them. Stupid Freaks, he thought angrily. Ain’t got the sense to know when to quit!
He looked down at the power level readout on his prod. Less than half a charge remained. They needed to get out of there.
They hurried on, reached a wide set of stairs, and began to climb. At the top of the stairs was an open space, a common area serving a series of ruined shops. An escalator rose ahead of them, frozen in place, metal treads dulled by time and a lack of care, a black scaly snake. It was so long that its top could not be seen.
“We have to go up that?” Panther growled.
“The street’s up there, and right across from that, the freeway.” Sparrow took his arm. “C’mon, let’s get to where we’re going and be done with it.”
She practically raced up the steps, leaving Panther to either watch or follow. He chose the latter, hurrying to catch up, taking the stairs two at a time. Their shoes padded against the metal, and once or twice Panther’s prod clanged against the sides of the escalator. Too much noise, he chided himself. But he didn’t hear the Croaks anymore, so maybe it didn’t matter. He watched the steps recede beneath his feet and found himself wondering how escalators worked, back when they did work. How did those steps fold up and flatten out and return to shape like that? Fixit would know. He shook his head. Must have been something to watch.
They crested the stairs and moved across an open space to a set of wide double doors that opened into the lobby of another hotel. The lobby stretched away through gloom and shadows to a wall of broken-out glass windows and a pair of ornate doors that were closed against the world. Old furniture filled the lobby, most of it torn apart and tipped over. Fake plants lay fallen on their sides, still in their pots, dusty and gray, strange corpses with spindly limbs. Bits and pieces of metal glittered on railings and handles, but the rust was winning the battle here, too.
He was starting across the lobby toward the doors when Sparrow grabbed his arm. “Panther,” she whispered.
He glanced over quickly, the way she spoke his name an unmistakable warning. She was looking up at the balcony that encircled the lobby.
Dozens of Croaks were looking down.
“I don’t believe this!” Panther muttered.
The Croaks began shuffling along the railing, their strange, twisted faces barely visible in the gloom, their bodies hunched over. There didn’t seem to be any of them on the lobby level, but by now Panther was looking everywhere at once, his prod held ready for the inevitable attack.
“We have to get to the doors,” Sparrow hissed at him. “We have to get outside again.”
She had that much right, even if she’d gotten everything else wrong. Panther started toward the doors, turning this way and that as he did, searching the darkness, watching for movement. Overhead, the Croaks had reached the stairs and were coming down, the sounds of grunting and growling clearly audible. Too many of them to be stopped if they attacked, Panther knew. If they trapped Sparrow and him in that lobby…
He didn’t bother finishing the thought. He gave it another two seconds, measuring their chances, then yelled, “Run!”
They broke for the doors and almost instantly a Croak appeared right in front of them, seemingly out of nowhere. Panther jammed his prod into the creature’s midsection and gave it a charge that knocked it backward, twitching and writhing. Others were surfacing all around them, come out of the shadows in which they had been hiding, so many of them that Panther felt his courage fail completely. He hated Croaks. He had seen what they could do. He didn’t want to die this way.
He howled in challenge, a way to hold himself together, and with Sparrow next to him leapt for the double doors that led to the street. The Croaks were too slow to stop them. They gained the doors, and Panther shoved down hard on the handles.
Locked.
Without hesitating, he grabbed Sparrow’s arm and pulled her toward the largest of the broken-out windows. Sweeping his prod around the frame to clear out the fragments of glass, he shoved her through to the street, then dove after her without turning to look back at what was breathing down his neck. Claws ripped at his clothing, slowing but not stopping him. Twisting, he broke away and tumbled out onto the concrete.
He was back on his feet instantly, turning to run. But more Croaks had appeared in front of them, come from inside the hotel or from across the street or maybe from the sky—who knew? He screamed at them, rushing to the attack. What else could he do? Sparrow was next to him, her pale face intense, her prod swinging like a club, electricity leaping off the tip as it raked the Croaks.
They fought like wild things, but both of them already knew that it wouldn’t be enough.
SPIDERS!
It was Owl’s first thought. An entire community of them, living i
n those rusted-out vehicle shells. It was an odd choice of habitat. Spiders preferred basements or underground tunnels with a dozen entrances and exits. Shy and reclusive, they mostly kept away from the other denizens of the city. They were not normally a threat to anyone. But she shivered anyway, despite herself. There was something creepy about Spiders—about the way they moved, crouched down on all fours, arms and legs indistinguishable; about their hairy bodies and elongated limbs, disproportionate and crooked; and about their flat faces, which were almost featureless. They were Freaks like the others, mutants born of the world’s destruction, humans made over into something new and unnatural. Rationally, she understood this. Viscerally, she had difficulty accepting it.
As she watched this bunch creep into view, still nothing more than a featureless cluster of dark shapes in the gloom, she tried to think what the Ghosts should do. They could turn back and seek sanctuary in the buildings at the top of the freeway ramp and wait there for Logan Tom. Or they could continue ahead and try to make their way past the Spiders to where the Knight of the Word’s vehicle was parked. If they kept to the far side of the ramp and managed not to act hostile, perhaps it would be all right. Maybe they could even explain what they—
She froze. The first of the dark shapes had emerged into the faint glow cast by the distant lights of the compound and the ambient brightness of stars peeking through cloud-concealed sky. As their faces lifted out of the shadows, she saw that these weren’t Spiders, after all.
They were street kids.
But they were something else, too.
While they were still recognizable as human, it was clear that the poisons that had permeated everything had damaged them. Their faces were deformed, their skin burned and riddled with lesions. Some of them were missing eyes and noses and ears. Some carried themselves in ways that suggested they could not move as normal humans did. Some had no hair; some had so much hair they could almost be mistaken for Spiders. They were dressed in ragged clothes that barely covered their mutilated bodies. She had never seen street kids like these, all twisted and broken. She wondered how they could have been living so close without the Ghosts knowing.
