Banshee

by Terry Maggert

  Moss put a calming hand on Orontes’ leg. “You are safe, friend, and believe me, we understand what your people are going through. We have the same problem, merely different geography.”

  “You-you do?” Orontes sputtered. “Are there caves nearby? He looked around with alarm.

  “No, calm yourself,” Delandra said, smiling down at the discomfited man. “We are flat, hot, and free of holes larger than what a snake might burrow.”

  That seemed to quell some of Orontes’ buzzing worry. “If not a cave, then where?” he asked, guardedly.

  Saavin pointed with her chin in the direction of the salty spur of ocean. “The water.”

  “Every new moon? The killing moon, rather?” Orontes corrected himself.

  Moss nodded. “One, sometimes two waves of creatures. Sea life of some sort, although to be truthful, we rarely see the same forms twice in a row. The only thing they have in common from month to month is their lust for blood and ability to charge together, almost as if they’re linked somehow.”

  “And yet, you defeat them? How?” Orontes asked.

  Outside the infirmary, Dauntless and another unknown dragon roared at each other, shaking the flimsy curtain with their power. Moss gave a feral smile. “Dragons.”

  13

  Dragons

  “The first real victory was . . . I mean, if you can call it a victory, it was in Kentucky. Now I understand how everything went to shit so fast, but at the time, it was total chaos in the middle of a darkening highway. Mammoth Cave is gigantic, but you don’t know just how extensive until you start looking at the maps—there are some systems it connects to that we think might total more than a thousand miles of caverns. Who the hell wasn’t expecting something to come out of that enormous maze?

  “I’d been driving all day since leaving Alabama, and I was damned tired. I was about five miles from the Cave City exit when traffic slowed, and then stopped. You gotta understand, I drive on I-65 all the time; it’s amateur hour every single day, so I knew it was probably just another one of the stupid accidents that clogs that highway like clockwork. The sun was just starting to set in that perfect October sky, and the temperature was falling, but not too bad. Like everyone else, I got out of my vehicle and took a look up the side of the road. Since I was on state business, I was wearing my sidearm; all of us rangers did at that time, you just never knew what you might find in the parks. These were the first months after the initial attacks, and there was still some hint of normalcy in the air. I think it ended that night.

  “The first thing I noticed was the sound. As in, there was none. No traffic coming south on the other side, which was really unusual. Even when there’s a terrible accident, traffic starts moving pretty quickly again across the dividers, but the lanes were empty. Completely. I heard a distant shriek of metal, and I remember thinking that some rubbernecker had just plowed into a standing vehicle. But then I heard another squeal of metal, long and violent, and then a third. By then, people were all out of their cars, and I saw a few of the brighter bulbs start putting two and two together. Cops caught in the traffic, some ex-military like me, even a small woman who looked exactly like every Kindergarten teacher I’ve ever known stood on their cars and started screaming at the crowd to get back in their vehicles. Nobody listened. Or, I should say, I sure as hell did, even if nobody else was going to use their head and get some kind of safety. I pulled my shotgun from the trunk as fast as my hands would move, got into the truck, and fired up the engine. I bolted across the median at an emergency passage and, in the dying light, I could see a wave of people running toward me. Their mouths were open and they were screaming, to the last soul.

  “To the north, I saw what was driving everyone. They were horses, sort of, but with hooves like fans of bone. Their heads were black and dripping with slime, and they had fangs like tigers—hell, longer than a tigers’ teeth. More like daggers. Their bodies were ropy and sick looking and, when one of them went down from snapping a foreleg in a pothole, I could see that their withers and tails were bone. Their eyes were lit from within, a deep red, and every few strides they would rear back their heads and spit at the people running. Whatever that shit touched, it burned. I saw one woman get hit between the shoulder blades with a gobbet of that poison, and the scream that tore from her throat made the hair on my neck go straight up. Her sweater collapsed into the hole in her chest in less than three steps; the venom had eaten clean through her. I leaned out of my window and put a slug between her eyes as she tumbled; it was the least I could do. Before those damned things could triangulate on me, I hit the gas and figured, if nothing else, I was going to plow the row.

  “I needn’t have worried. Four dragons swept down like the fist of God from south to north and, where they skimmed, their claws were ripping those demons apart like paper lanterns. They bellowed and roared as they snapped and grabbed. The ground shook when one of them crashed headlong into a herd of the beasts that were now galloping away to the north in full retreat. It was a bloodbath. The biggest dragon, Tiburon, was a deep-blue fifty-meter streak who led the charge. It being fall, the leaves were off, and I had a clear view when he flattened an entire stand of water maple and black locust trees just to get at three of the horse demons that had taken refuge near a sinkhole. As their hooves dug furiously, Tiburon caught all three of them in his mouth with one motion. From a half mile away, I heard the crunch of their spines as if he was feeding on the hood of my truck. The clear fall air carried every single noise to my ears. In between their kills, I could hear the dragons and their riders cajoling each other to go faster. I’d never imagined that any living thing could be so powerful, or so brave, and though I hadn’t been to church in twenty years, I dropped down to my knees in the median and thanked whoever was listening. I remember saying that no matter what, as long as we had dragons, we had a chance.” —Ranger Andy Mueller

  —Bulwark Archival Materials, Access Date 96 A.R.

  14

  Ruins of Louisville/Kentuckiana

  Cynthia’s face was pink with anger. After a hissing breath through her nose, she walked to the skinny, dirty man slouching insouciantly before her, and drew close enough that he could smell the mint leaves she was habitually chewing.

  “I know you think you’re smart enough to run an outfit, Parker. No, don’t interrupt me, because if one more lie comes of that hole you call a mouth, I’ll personally cut your throat. I brought you along from Indianapolis because you seemed like you knew rivers. Well, here we are two months later, and it’s obvious that, not only are you ignorant about anything that’s wet, but you’re doubly stupid when it comes to dry land. That makes you as useless as tits on a boar to me. But since two of our own are in the belly of that ungodly crocodile, and one more good man is crushed in the mud, guess what?”

  Parker didn’t move, nor did he speak. His eyes dipped to see Cynthia’s finger drumming on the butt of her pistol and, although he was an asshole, he wasn’t necessarily stupid.

  “That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve done since joining us.” Cynthia granted him a wintry smile. “I’m putting you on the most basic house detail possible. Listen closely, because I’m saying this once—and only once.” She leaned in until their noses were almost touching. Cynthia was a tall woman, and Parker was of average height, so their eyes were dead level. The force of her stare moved him back slightly, but he locked his knees and marshalled what stillness he could. “That row of houses? Right there? You start with the three that have both floors above the floodwaters. Then, you move on carefully up the elevation of the street. Slowly, room by room. You don’t hurry, and you don’t trash anything. If you find a single shot of liquor, you mark it and set it on the front porch. If I smell anything on your breath other than concentration, I’ll shoot you where you stand. Here are your salvage instructions—you’re looking for gun cases, metals, and cutlery. Again, metals. I don’t want you wasting one second of my time with something you think might be valuable, because up until now you
r judgment has been beyond idiotic. I want you to look in storage buildings for tools and hardware. I want sealed containers of lubricants that might still be viable. And”—Cynthia cut her eyes at a woman standing nearby—“I’m sending Tessa with you to make sure you don’t end up chasing butterflies or something equally dumb.” Cynthia took a breath and stepped back. “I know you hate me, and that’s fine. Go ahead. But this city is going to keep us in food and supplies for the rest of our lives, and maybe beyond that. And I am not going to let some halfwit like you screw our arrangement with New Madrid, d’ya hear me?”

  Parker’s teeth were crushed together, but he ground out a simple yes. Cynthia stared at him for a heated moment, and then turned in dismissal. The blocky figure of Tessa, a serious brunette, moved forward and pointed silently across the muck-filled streets to the houses they were assigned to begin investigating. Parker cast his eyes at the mud and debris under his boots, and swore that no matter what else might happen, one day, he would kill that bitch Cynthia if it was the last thing he did.

  It took nearly an hour to navigate the holes and washout of what had once been a paved street, but was now a swirling morass of stagnant water, deadfalls, and exposed pipes. Tessa and Parker finally stood before the two-story red brick home that had once been a grand dame, but now stood in moderate disrepair. Considering the elements, the home looked relatively safe, but Tessa held out a thick arm to stop Parker from stepping up onto the broad stone steps that led up the inclined front yard. A glance up the street left both salvagers more confident that something of value was nearby. The general appearance of each home was a far cry above the usual detritus they clawed through each day. Parker felt buoyed by that, and momentarily forgot his rage at being dressed down in front of the other crew members.

  “Look.” Tessa pointed at the railing that leaned drunkenly inward. A spider the size of a work glove sat unmoving in the exact spot where Parker had been preparing to place his hand.

  “Jesus . . . thanks. I, I didn’t see it.” He was shaken slightly and, even through his anger, he had to admit that maybe Cynthia was partially right about his abilities in a drowned city.

  Stepping lightly, they mounted the porch and were relieved to find that the structure seemed, if not blistered and sagging, to at least be relatively sound. A large double door greeted them, still tightly closed. The windows were intact, save one pane, and there was furniture visible through the sidelights of the doors. That was unexpected. Most cities had been looted, burned, or flattened by some calamity. Parker felt the further stirrings of excitement at the prospect of a huge strike.

  “Open and clear?” he asked.

  Tessa grinned. “It’s full sun. If there’s anything in there, it won’t be . . . special.”

  Parker felt himself smile in return. In his short time clearing buildings, he’d come to realize that daylight was the best ally he could hope for. Predatory beings from underneath could hide for months above ground if there was sufficient darkness and food. “Fair enough. Opening on three.”

  The door pushed in easily, and they stood in stillness to let any noises come to them. The kind of silence that comes from abandonment greeted their intense minute of listening, and they stepped quietly inside.

  “What a shame,” Parker murmured.

  “They all are,” Tessa said. It had been an actual home once. Not a store, or public building, or some soulless outpost of government, but a place where people lived and built a life and family together. The entire home was more or less intact, with some oddly faded spaces on the wallpaper indicating that the family had some advance warning of the flood. The general air was one of careful preservation and planning, something that was often missing in the disrupted properties they were used to ransacking. Near the kitchen, a built-in desk held two recessed drawers. Parker slid the first out; it was filled with take-out menus, all in order, and business cards for lawn services or snow removal. Like everything in the home, there was a method to it. The second drawer was filled with office supplies. Paper clips and pens crowded a tray that huddled far back in the right corner. Within the pile of paperclips sat a single key.

  “Padlock key.” Parker held it up to Tessa. They were experts as determining what kind use a key served, merely by looking at the shape or brand; it was part of their stock in trade. Tessa’s eyes flicked to the small white shed in the back yard. It was painted and trimmed to resemble a small Tudor-style house, and a substantial-looking padlock was visible even from their vantage point.

  “I’ll go check it out. You keep going through the house. If I find anything, I’ll yell. You do the same, okay?” Tessa opened the back door and stepped out onto the porch without a second glance. She expected nothing but obedience from Parker and, for now, she was right. He turned back to carefully opening and closing each compartment in the kitchen, and was rewarded with not one but two excellent sets of German cutlery. The chef’s knives were in perfect condition and there were four sharpening stones of various grades to accompany the blades. In a smaller side cabinet, he prized multiple kitchen tools that were of high quality, including two well-made can openers.

  Before he could continue his slow pilfering of the home, a shout from the yard drew his attention. Pulling his pistol without thinking, he stepped easily through the back door to see Tessa waving excitedly.

  “C’mon back here, you gotta see this!” she shouted, and then vanished back into the medium-sized shed.

  Seconds later, Parker stood looking with wonder at the contents of the undisturbed building. Whoever had lived here, they were incredibly organized. Tessa waved a hand in amazement at the array of hand tools and supplies that filled the shelves to the ceiling.

  “Can you believe this? There must be a thousand feet of copper wiring! And there’s electrical tools, carpentry tools . . . my God, there’s even woodworking stuff. These people were handy!” Tessa’s voice was fat with reverence. Each of the high-quality tools had a distinct place. There were even two rolling mechanic’s boxes filled with obedient rows of automotive tools. This was easily the single largest strike the crew would see for months, and Parker hadn’t even really gone through the house yet.

  “This is way more than we can carry. I think we might need—well, everyone,” Parker finished. He was understating the case, if anything.

  Tessa nodded quickly once, and took an estimating look at the sun, which was well past zenith.

  “I’m going to get the team. You stay here. Don’t move anything; we don’t want to screw this up with Cynthia. This might just keep you on the crew for a while longer,” Tessa directed.

  After a brief flare of anger, Parker swallowed his pride and gave a quick assent. “I’ll keep looking in the house, although I think it’s empty. It looks like they knew the floods were coming,” he said in what he hoped was a most helpful tone.

  “Right. Well, like I said, don’t screw it up. But yeah, go ahead. I’ll have them back by nightfall; we may as well plan on staying here until morning. This is too important to leave.” Tessa gave him a companionable slap on the shoulder and strode across the yard with squelching noises. Her smile told him he had made progress simply by being lucky, but he wasn’t done for the day. With care inspired by his lingering fear of being abandoned, he reentered the home and began to systematically disgorge the useful things that each room had to offer. In the dining room, he found a soup tureen that screamed of wealth; it was silver and would hold a pair of chickens with ease. He placed it carefully by the door, along with the plunder from each subsequent room. The guest bath had razors and two mirrors, and the pantry held even more kitchen tools and the unexpected joy of a small camping stove. After two hours, he ventured up the wooden staircase and entered the master suite, and it was there that he made the discovery that would change his attitude permanently.

  Parker had always been a sharp negotiator. You had to be cagey in order to survive in the hellhole that was the husk of the United States. He knew that Cynthia was too much of a straight s
hooter to really leverage those do-gooders in New Madrid, not the way he could if given the chance. Sure, they fought the screamers once a month, but it wasn’t like they were out here in the muck and collapsed buildings where there was no twenty-eight day warning for the arrival of your death. Out here, you died fast, and usually badly. He’d seen truly horrific deaths in the time he’d been with the Pennyroyal salvagers, and frankly, the sooner he could score big and ditch this life, the better. That desire, not Cynthia’s sharp tongue, was what made him comb the upstairs of that forgotten house like he was looking for the gates of heaven. It started when he found name badges and work-related mail in the office, a small, tasteful blue room across from the third bathroom. Scott Hayes was on everything, including a pair of seventy-year-old college diplomas left hanging on the wall. Chemical Engineering and Chemical Design, whatever that was, and apparently the guy had been some sort of boss man at the largest industrial firm in the area. There were citations and yellowed news articles, and even a photo gone to sepia showing the man himself posing in a jeep near a bridge that had collapsed into river. Army, thought Parker, and then he noticed that the bridge hadn’t collapsed, it had been demolished.

  It was a full hour later that Parker removed the invisible panel from behind the air intake vent in the second bedroom. There, covered in dust, sat a metal lockbox that screamed valuable to Parker’s eye, no matter what Cynthia thought of his ability to grade loot. He went to work instantly with his tools, and broke the lid apart with a violent twist. His breath left him like he’d been kicked. Parker knew his way around. His old man had fished near what was left of Cairo on the Mississippi but, when the river was too high, he’d been a scrounger, too. His dad’s biggest score was some dynamite that was so decayed, he’d cursed and left it where it sat. Unsurprisingly, their lives had been close to the verge of poverty at all times. The day they found the tattered dynamite, his father explained that not all explosives were susceptible to the ravages of time. His dad knew things; stuff that happened before the fall of the world, and one of the most valuable items you could ever salvage was something he reverently called the Hundred Year Boom.