by David Estes
The dead have no regard for their own re-lives. Their orders are simple—killkillkill!—and they mindlessly carry them out, swinging spiked clubs and crowbars and rusty daggers at their foes. A Pyro tries to defend itself by throwing a fireball, but it’s too slow, the Reanimate bludgeoning him to death with a club, which catches on fire, racing up the handle and over the living corpse’s body. Still he fights, swinging his flaming club at anyone near him, setting witches and Reanimates alight. Eventually, however, the flames overcome whatever magical strength is in his decaying flesh and bone and muscle, and he folds like a crappy hand of poker, burning to ash on the ground.
Even as I watch with morbid fascination, I wonder who infused life into this particular corpse. Was it Xave? Is he here? Or was it his father, the Reaper?
I’m snapped out of my revelry when a Reanimate—a woman with pale, freckled skin on one half of her, and black, charred, burnt flesh on the other—comes at me with a knife, already slick with blood. I raise my sword to block her strike, but it never comes. It’s as if I’m not even there; she runs past me and leaps at a warlock, cutting deep into his back.
What the hell? What just happened? I don’t have time to consider my questions, because I spot Laney again. She’s still fighting hard, but moving swiftly through the magic-born, who seem more concerned with the Reanimates tearing through their ranks.
Spinning my sword over my head like a helicopter, I hack my way through the opposing witches, doing my best to avoid the crocodile-like Changelings and Reanimates who, at least for the moment, seem to be loosely on my side. I’m aware of the blood and gore flying around me, but I don’t stop, because Laney is almost to the White House steps.
With a final flurry of slashes, I break through just ahead of her.
But not ahead of the red witch, who transforms back into her “normal” beautiful self, her dress black this time, swishing around her feet as she climbs the stairs.
Samsa swings at her, but she ducks and swipes a hand forward. Her manicured nails vanish as a single sword-like claw extends, puncturing the Slammer’s gut like a piece of meat on a skewer. With a shriek, the red witch twists the sword like she’s turning a screw. Samsa gasps, his sharp intake of breath audible despite the dull roar of the background noise.
And just like that, with a single blow, the giant dies, blood pouring from his stomach the moment the red witch withdraws her claw-sword.
President Washington smiles and claps. Slowly. Tauntingly. “Impressive,” she says. “I had high hopes for Samsa. Oh well, I will have to find another brainless fool to replace him. Are you looking for a job?”
“My only job is to kill you,” the red witch says. For the first time, I almost like her.
The president sighs. “Very well. We’ll do this your way, although I suspect you’ll be less than happy with the results.”
In a split-second, the red Changeling growls and transforms into the monster I met in the middle of the battle. She leaps at the president, her claws firing out, her teeth bared and dripping with blood. It’s over, I think, the moment before the red witch’s body is flung back, her form once again flickering between the creature and her normal self, until she crumples against one of the heavy white pillars, where she comes to rest, unmoving, red hair spilling across her expressionless face.
That’s when I realize: The wizard isn’t casting protective spells over the witches fighting for President Washington; he’s casting protective spells around President Washington, making her untouchable.
Except, of course, for me. (I hope.)
Without thinking, I sprint up the steps, taking them three at a time with my long strides. The president doesn’t move to defend herself, overly confident in the abilities of her pet wizard.
The force of the invisible barrier pushing against me is like going toe to toe with a freight train, my body instantly feeling bruised and battered. But still I stagger forward, shoving back both mentally and physically against the very magic I was born to Resist. The president’s confident expression turns to wide-eyed surprise as I roar, throwing the barrier back toward her like a shockwave, knocking Charles Gordon aside even as I sweep her feet out from under her. I pounce like a cat on a mouse, bringing the tip of my sword to rest in the natural depression in her neck.
“Call them off,” I growl.
Her surprise morphs back into arrogance, her lips forming a sneer. “No,” she says.
“I’ll do it,” I say. I’ve killed so many magic-born already, what’s one more? Especially one like her who’s made it her goal to enslave the human race and rule the world. A quick movement of my right arm and it’ll all be over.
“No you won’t,” she says. My sword digging into her skin, drawing a trickle of blood, she tucks her knees beneath her and pushes up, all the way to standing. I should kill her, but I don’t. I don’t. She’s called my bluff and I know it. “Only I can save your father and remove his curse,” she says. “I’m willing to help you if you help me.”
“What do you want?” I ask. Am I really considering helping her? I don’t even really know my father, but that’s not his fault. It’s hers. She cursed him so he could never be close to me, never hold me as a baby, never hug me. Even coming to watch one of my football games would’ve been too near, his life draining away from him, causing him excruciating pain. And yet now she’s the only one who can save him.
She smiles a wicked smile and pushes the bloodstained tip of my blade away from her neck. She dabs at the wound with a finger and then licks the blood. “Help me destroy those who oppose me. The Necros, the Changelings, and the Claires. Only then will I remove your father’s curse.”
My heart, which has been jackhammering in my chest for what feels like hours, skips a beat. Xave is a Necro. Mr. Jackson, too. The red witch is a Changeling. And Trish is a Claire. Four people who have helped me in one way or another. Four people whose lives have changed mine for the better in many ways. If I stack their lives up against my father’s, which way will the scale fall? Does it even matter? Does saving one life matter if you have to condemn another? This was never a choice. Never an option.
“Never!” I shout, pushing her back with all of my strength, not killing her but sending her skidding across the White House entrance.
Regaining her feet, she says, “You fool!” and points a hand at my chest. I brace myself, ready to mentally combat whatever spell she’s about to cast. As if sensing my determination, she laughs. “Something you still don’t know about Generals is that we acquire the magical strength of any witches we kill,” she says. “And I have killed many.”
The spell comes in the form of a flying, see-through snake, which moves as gracefully as the wind. Gritting my teeth, I manage to stop it mere inches from my face, my power stronger than however many witches President Washington has killed. Sweat dribbles down my forehead and into my eyes, burning them. But still I fight on, even as I hear Laney shout, “Hold on, Rhett! I’m coming!”
Fatigue sets in, helped along by a healthy dose of fear as the snake’s tongue flicks in and out, its hiss as real as a slap in the face. My Resistance falters, just for a second, but it’s enough for the president. With a gleeful shriek, she punches the air, the snake’s head swiftly lashing out, just as I feel myself being tackled from behind by Laney, who falls atop me.
My cheek is on fire, like it’s been lacerated. I must’ve scraped it on the ground when Laney decided to play linebacker. No. That’s not it, because my entire body is burning. The image of the snake flashes before my eyes, and no matter how much I blink it remains, its beady eyes and fangs taunting me. I—I—
I can’t move.
The realization hits me as Laney tugs me to a kneeling position, her hands molding me like clay. Every movement is because of her. I can’t feel…anything. Not even the beating of my own heart, or my inhalations and exhalations. Nothing.
I try to speak but my lips won’t move. Have I been petrified? I remember the young girl I once saw petrified by
a Destroyer—it was during one of Mr. Jackson’s “field trips.” We didn’t even try to help her, and the Destroyers made her body crumble like ancient, weathered stone. Is that what the president is going to do to me? Am I moments away from crumbling?
“What have you done to him?” Laney demands, her teeth clamped together. I can still see her. I can still see everything, but like the unoiled Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz, I can’t move a single joint or muscle. I can’t even blink.
“Ah, young love,” President Washington says. “So demanding, so fresh, so frail. I could kill him with nothing more than a thought, you know.”
Laney raises her arm and points the Glock at the president. “You’ll die well before you finish that thought,” she says.
The president chuckles to herself. “Sometimes I wish you were the Resistor. You’re tougher than your friend. I could use an ally like you.”
“Go to hell,” Laney says, verbalizing exactly what I was thinking.
“We’re already here,” the president says. “But no, I won’t kill Rhett. I need him alive. I need him to fight for me. A few simple spells will ensure his allegiance to me for as long as I need him.”
No. I can’t fight on her side. I can’t. I’d rather die.
As if providing a soundtrack for my dark thoughts, the screams and shouts and sounds of death and battle seem to rise up just then. I wonder who’s winning the fight, but I can’t turn my head to look.
“Like I said, you’ll die before you can cast your spell,” Laney says.
“Such spunk wasted,” the president says. “I need Rhett Carter, but alas, I have no need for you. Except as bait, that is.”
Two things happen at that exact moment: Laney fires her Glock and the president’s eyes flick past her. There’s a flash of bright purple light, blinding my unblinking eyes, and then all goes dark.
I can hear Laney screaming and the president laughing and people dying, but I can’t see a damn thing. The darkness begins to fade just as the ground starts shaking, rumbling. It’s weird because I can’t feel it, but I can see it, the jumbled images bouncing around like they’re being shaken by an overactive child.
Charles Gordon is there, and the president, too. I realize what happened. The president looked at the wizard, who was back on his feet. He must’ve fired a spell to protect his master from Laney’s magical bullets. And now…
The White House is shaking, crumbling, the pillars being torn in half, ripped apart like an old coat. A chasm opens up, the earth splitting and pulling apart. I’m right next to the edge, but I still can’t move. Can’t scramble away. Can only watch and hope and pray that gravity doesn’t decide to suck me in. And Laney: She’s struggling with two magic-born, who have managed to grab hold of her arms, holding them tightly behind her. They’re shoving her toward the chasm, which is now spouting fire and smoke like a volcano.
The gap in the earth continues to widen, pulling chunks of the White House into the infinitely deep hole, and eventually, with the sound of a hundred bombs going off, the entire presidential residence collapses in a maelstrom of dust and debris.
The White House is gone. I almost wish someone had pointed me in the other direction so I didn’t have to see it. And now I’m about to witness something else I’d rather not see. Laney’s death.
Laney! I try to shout, but nothing comes out. And yet she looks at me, right at me, as if sensing my attempt at communication. Straining my mind, I try to thrust off the spell, but it’s too strong. Whatever ability I have to Resist magic, it’s not enough. I’m not nearly strong enough.
As I’m forced to stare on in horror, Laney offers a final halfhearted smile just before she’s shoved into the chasm.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Laney
Dying isn’t nearly as epic an experience as everyone makes it out to be in the movies.
As I flail helplessly, my arms and legs wind-milling futilely, I wonder when my life will flash before my eyes. You know, the cool collage of everything I’m leaving behind, everything I’ve done, all the minute details of my life I didn’t even realize were trapped in my memory? Nuh-uh. I don’t get any of that.
Instead, smoke sears my eyes and chokes my lungs. Fire burns my skin. Blackness folds itself in on all sides.
And then I’m free of it, rising above it, as if I’m spreading invisible wings and flying away, off to some other life. But gosh I’ll miss them. Rhett and Trish and even Huckle and Bil Nez. Hex. Tears blur my vision. Wait. I’ve stopped rising. Did someone make a mistake and give me dysfunctional wings? That would be just my luck. An angel with broken wings.
I feel a tug on my left wrist. Another on my right. My eyes dance from side to side and the truth sinks in slowly. I’ve been strung up with magical cords, glowing bright white. Only two of the White House pillars remain standing, and they’re what I’m lashed to, dangling like a puppet on a string above the fiery, smoky chasm below. I force myself not to look directly down.
Instead I scan the battlefield, immediately spotting Hex and his bubble, my sister’s face pressed to the side, watching. Hex barks and she nods, as if conversing with him.
No, I think. “No!” I shout. But she won’t be stopped. I’m the bait and she’s the big fish rising to grab me, playing right into President Washington’s evil hands. The bubble bursts and she floats across the White House lawn, barely noticing the scant few witches and warlocks and Reanimates that are still alive and fighting to the death. Her dress and hair are so white she appears angelic.
“No, Trish!” I shout again, but she presses a finger to her lips.
Trust me, she says in my head. And though I want to argue with her, to tell her that I’m the big sister here, that she needs to run far, far away and let me do my job, like I always have, I don’t. Because I do trust her. Despite everything, I trust her with every cell in my body. Maybe I always have, even when I didn’t fully understand her.
On the ground below me, the president says, “Hello, Trish.”
~~~
Trish
This time will be different, Trish tells herself. I can save her. I can save my sister.
“You remember me?” President Washington says, cocking her head in surprise. “Impossible.”
It was you, Trish says, the truth pouring over her like the light of dawn. You did something to my memory.
“Yes,” the president says. “But apparently my memory spell wasn’t very good if you remember.”
I won’t let you kill another person I love, Trish says.
The witch raises an eyebrow. “You know I killed one of your Children and your earthly brother? Jasper was it?”
Yes.
“But that’s all you know?”
Trish stares at her, trying to decipher the meaning behind her words, trying to probe into the witch’s mind.
“You don’t know?” the president says, her mind like a steel trap. “Maybe my spell wasn’t so ineffective after all.”
What? Trish asks.
“I killed you, too,” the president says.
As if the floodgates in her mind have been opened, Trish remembers everything. Being too slow to save her loved ones. Being so distraught that she almost forgot who she was, that a deadly foe was standing before her. Watching as Washington, who was much younger back then, sent shards of broken glass flying across the room and into her flesh, ripping her apart from the inside out.
Murderer, Trish says, anger roaring like a blowtorch through her veins.
“I only kill those who are too weak to deserve to live,” the witch says. “And now it’s your sister’s turn. You could probably save her, but then I would live on. I will kill thousands more. I will bring about the complete extinction of the human race. Or…”—the president’s eyes glitter maliciously—“…you could kill me with a single scream.” Trish opens her mouth, the prospect of watching the woman die too tempting to pass up. “But your sister will die.” Trish follows the president’s gaze to the magic ropes on either side, whi
ch are already coming uncoiled, as if connected to the president’s life force. “The choice is yours.”
Thousands will die. Extinction of the human race. The thought shivers through her. Thousands have already died because she was too focused on protecting Jasper, so long ago. If she had killed the witch then, maybe none of this would’ve happened. She failed once—she can’t afford to again.
But her sister. Laney has been her earthly protector, her friend, her primary connection to this world. Can she really let her die when she has the power to save her? She shouldn’t care. Laney is but her earthly one-lifetime sister, but killing President Washington could save thousands of lives.
One of the threads snaps, making her sister’s body bounce dangerously, a tongue of flame licking at her feet. Her eyes meet Laney’s. There’s no fear in her sister’s expression. Only resistance. “Kill her,” Laney says, her jaw firm, her eyes steely. “There is no other choice.”
Trish knows Laney is right, but the thought of abandoning her sister is too much, sending shudders through her even as she opens her mouth to scream.
A giant hand flies up from her feet, clutching her jaw, clattering her teeth shut. Samsa, the Slammer, his body covered in blood from a gaping wound in his chest, smashes her mouth closed and squeezes it tighter than a metal vice.
She pushes her mind toward his, trying to take control of him, but he’s like a steel-trap, his defenses strong and without cracks or tears. He’s a warrior amongst Slammers, well-trained in the art of mind defense.
And he’s trying to crush her skull. It’s all she can do to force enough magical strength into her bones to prevent her immediate death.
In a moment when she should be frantic, struggling against the giant beneath her, a remarkable calm fills her. Even as she senses the end of Laney’s life, all the smoke and blood and tears and anger and death seem to fade away, giving her clarity of thought for the first time in her short life.
