by David Estes
With the appearance of the ghouls, surely we must be closing in on our quarry. I can only hope that Grogg has found Rhett. The future of humanity may depend on it.
Chasing Flora’s magic-born army is stupid and reckless, especially considering we’re weaponless—other than Hex, who’s full of more tricks than a magician’s bag, and Bil, who can at least Resist magic—and yet I know we can’t stop. Even though my belt feels exceptionally light without my trusty magged up Glock, I will soldier on, if only to fight the forces of evil with my bare knuckles and sturdy boots.
No one is exempt from this fight. No one.
As Hex quickens our pace, perhaps catching a more pungent whiff of our enemy, I wonder whether Trish is somewhere watching, waiting for her chance to return to the world that has been so unkind to her. I wonder if she’s scared for me, if she cares who I am. If she still considers me family.
A light catches my eye, and I don’t mean the glow that has surrounded Hex ever since the sky darkled and the thick knot of clouds swarmed overhead to blot out the stars.
It’s coming from me.
Not from all of me; rather, my finger is glowing, as if lit from within. As I hold it in front of my eyes and stare at it in wonder, it pulses three times, and then fades away into darkness.
“What does it mean?” asks Chloe, a question that seems far too normal for the phenomenon we just witnessed.
And yet I know the answer. “It means she still cares,” I say.
~~~
When Hex stops, I feel a burst of nervous energy plume in my chest, like a solar flare. Because I see what he sees. An end to the forest. Dark shapes move up ahead, shifting and stamping and pacing. Finally, a ray of moon-glow manages to break through the cloudy blanket, painting a shimmering silver sheen on the thousands of enemies before us.
“They’ve stopped,” I whisper.
“Yes,” Bil says.
“But why?” Chloe asks, her nose scrunched up earnestly.
I peer into the gloom, searching for any sign that we’ve reached the borders of Alliance, that Rhett and the others are ready and waiting for the demons that approach under the cover of night.
Nothing.
Well, not exactly nothing. As the cracks in the sky continue to widen, a field comes into view, rolling itself out like a massive silver-blue carpet.
Time seems to stop, allowing for only basic human function to continue. My beating heart, pounding dully in my chest. The heat of my blood, rushing through my veins, roaring through my skull. My sharp intakes of breath and deep, sighing exhalations, as loud to my ears as a lion’s ferocious bellow.
When time restarts itself, my heart is still beating, my blood still rushing, and my lungs still breathing. But that’s not what causes me to raise my hand to cover my mouth in horror. No, that’s caused by what my eyes perceive in the distance.
Forms, which surely must be human by the sheer normalcy of how they move, pour from the opposite side of the field, carrying fiery torches, traipsing into the high grass, their bodies disappearing while their heads bob up and down as if severed from their necks. Not a few humans, but hundreds, an endless stream, marching resolutely toward the literal jaws of death.
And though surely the humans can’t see the army waiting for them under the dark cover of the forest, their screams rend the hushed silence like swords slashing through the fabric of night.
~~~
Rhett
We run, a deluge of pounding footsteps so loud it would drown out the drumbeat of a torrential downpour. In our panic, there’s no room for fear, and I find myself shoulder to shoulder with the undead, gruesome, poorly formed Reanimates with snapping jaws and unseeing empty eye sockets. So strong is their bloodlust for the enemy that it’s as if I don’t exist, and they don’t so much as glance in my direction. Their masters have trained them well.
The Necros, in their long dark hoods, look almost comical, like hundreds of monks running a marathon, the folds of cloth at the base of their cloaks sweeping the ground beneath their feet. The Claires, having thrust off the now pointless shroud of invisibility, run like women possessed. Mags’s ghouls stream from her fingertips, which are already trailing gossamer threads of hair while her scalp grows a crown of fingernails.
My sword is out, reflecting the glow from Huckle’s magged up saber o’ light, gleaming in the dark. As we run, I catch glimpses of Grogg turning cartwheels and doing somersaults amongst the witches and warlocks, as if he’s gone to some strange happy place borne on the wings of the redemption he was granted the moment he found me.
The wind lashes my face as heavy breaths pour from my mouth, becoming one with the airstream. My sweat seems to freeze on my skin the moment it emerges from my pours, leaving me feeling shivery all the way to my bones.
The entire scene and the myriad feelings that come with it are surreal, as if we’re all costumed actors in some fantasy movie, about to face our computer-animated foes on a battlefield that’s really a well-designed set made to look like reality. If only. If only life was still formed from laughter and movies and dinner dates and coffee and homework and bullies and touchdown catches. Unlike Huckle, I’d give anything to have all that back.
As the end of the human train comes into view, illuminated by the dozens of torches they’ve lit to light their way, some of them turn, finally becoming aware of our presence. Even from a distance, I can tell that their eyes grow as wide as dinner plates, their screams and shouts bursting like explosions as they turn and start to run.
They think we’re the enemy; that we’ve decided, now that the Alliance has been broken, to kill them just for the fun of it; that we’re the hunters and they’re our prey. Like a ripple in a pond, the news of our arrival seems to roll through the humans, pushing them forward with reckless abandon. Beyond them I can see a field of long grass, already filled with fleeing humans who don’t even realize they’re running toward their doom, rather than away from it.
A few of them turn to shoot and bullets zip past us, narrowly missing their targets. Others seem to be trying to urge the humans forward, and I recognize Floss’s shock of pink hair against the dark backdrop. She’s yelling at the shooters, grabbing them and pulling them away. She knows we’re not here to hurt them. She knows that our presence means something far worse, and that time is of the essence.
There’s another tongue of flame and a dull thwack! as the shot connects, slamming a Necro backwards, a burst of blood and brains splattering those near him. He’s likely dead before he hits the ground, and my heart sinks into a miasma of guilt. I convinced the magic-born to help the humans. I’m responsible for his death.
No more, I think. There’s no time to feel sorry for myself and my ragged trail of choices, nor to wallow in my own despair. The humans are scared and they can’t fathom the possibility that we’re here to help.
I push my mind toward the smattering of humans who’ve managed to organize themselves into a jagged line, preparing once more to fire upon us. Floss is gone, having given up on them, likely moving forward with her witch hunters to help protect the others who are fleeing into the field. Shots ring out and a maelstrom of bullets fill the air, almost invisible at first, but then I use my mind to slow them down, bring them into focus, and drop them harmlessly like falling rocks. Their magic bullets are no good against the magic-born while I’m on their side. Although the thought is comforting at this exact moment, that comfort evaporates when I realize the other side of the coin. With my sister, Rain Carter, on the side of the Shifters and their allies, the humans’ pathetic weapons will be equally useless.
Realizing the futility of their stand, the brave line of humans breaks apart, retreating with the rest of the group, streaming onto the field.
The vision explodes in my head with blinding clarity:
A match is struck, a single glowing ember of clarity in an ocean of darkness. The tiny point of light becomes two and then four and then many more, sprouting up like stars in the night sky. That’s when I
realize:
They’re not matches or stars, but torches, illuminating an approaching menace. An army of stalwart warriors, moving robotically with stiff arms and legs, swords and knives blood red under the glow of their lanterns. Somehow, perhaps because of Trish’s influence, I understand their one and only purpose.
To destroy.
With a cold suddenness I’m aware of men and women and children fleeing across a great unbroken expanse toward the lights. Toward the army. If they’re running toward an army, then surely they’re running from something even more fearsome.
Jaws snap. Teeth clash. Growls and barks and far more sinister animal sounds shatter the night, drawing shrieks and screams from the human prey.
I want to move, to draw my sword, to stand and fight for the thousands of souls, but my feet are as frozen as my lips. All I can do is watch. Watch and remember, as Trish instructed.
A panther bounds into view, leaping atop a straggling human—a child.
The moment she screams the darkness returns, swirling away in reverse, as if unwriting itself.
As the vision fades I find myself gasping for air, my elbows on my knees. Xave’s head is close to mine and he’s physically holding me up under my armpits. “Rhett? Rhett?” His voice sounds dull and distant, as if he’s speaking underwater. In a rush, the full extent of my hearing returns, and I realize he’s been shouting the whole time. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“We’re too late,” I gasp, still struggling for breath. “The vision is true.”
“No,” he says, lifting upward, using sheer strength to help me stand erect. “You heard the Claire. The visions can be changed. Only we can change our fate.”
My soul brother grabs my arm and urges me forward, keeps me abreast when my legs threaten to crumble beneath me, forcing strength into my bones as if sharing his own energy through the very touch of our skin. He doesn’t let go until my loose hand tightens into a fist and my sword stops dragging in the dirt behind me. We’ve fallen behind the others, who are just now threading their way into the high grass, which is eerily silent, the humans realizing that stealth is their only hope of escape.
When we reach the field, Xave and I exchange a brief, knowing glance, and then skirt the edge of it, avoiding the high grass in an attempt to achieve greater speed, rounding the field to cut off the humans before the Shifters reach them first.
Sometimes my six-foot-five-inch height comes in handy, like now, when I’m able to see over the tall grass to what lies in wait beyond, under the shadows of the forest. Gleaming eyes that are surely attached to countless beasts—a massive army with a single goal: human extinction—stare across the great expanse, waiting for the perfect moment to begin their attack.
I glance left where the humans hold their torches over their heads to avoid setting the brittle grass alight. The front of the group has managed to traverse more than half the field, bullying their way through the overgrowth. We’re still too far behind them to be effective, so I push myself harder, my legs seeming to strengthen with each stride, quickly outdistancing Xave, whose heavy breathing fades into the background.
And though I stare at those gleaming eyes, willing them to stay put, or better yet, to fade away, they spring forward with a chorus of snarls, the first wave of beasts lunging into the field with animal quickness, claws flashing, jaws snapping.
With a throat-searing scream, I launch myself into the grass, my sword obliterating the stalks in droves, the path clearing before my pounding feet. Xave’s words echo in my ears:
Only we can change our fate.
~~~
Laney
Although I’m desperate to kill me some mangy Shifters, I’m not stupid enough to rush them without a single weapon to my name. Instead, we hover just behind them patiently, waiting for the right opportunity to present itself.
Those tortured moments waiting give me a surprising opportunity to consider the situation, something I normally avoid doing. Thinking about something too much is the best way to chicken out, something I pride myself on never doing. Pick a fight with those three snotty bitches who just made fun of your sister’s outfit? Don’t think about the fact that they’re all three years older and a head taller than you, just start throwing punches.
But, whereas spontaneity in that situation earned me matching black eyes and a week away from school, the same mistake now could earn me the unwanted opportunity to become the next Reanimate in the Reaper’s growing collection of zombies. And that’s something I definitely want to avoid.
So as Bil counsels Chloe to “Stay here and hide, we’ll come and find you when it’s over,” and Hex sniffs at a clump of Shifter fur stuck in the brambles of a bush, I consider what the hell is happening. Why are the humans gallivanting in the middle of nowhere at night, and why are they screaming? And are these the same humans I left behind in Alliance, or is this a different group, hunted by an even deadlier foe?
No reasonable answers come quickly, so I squint and try to make out any details I can. Nothing except torchlight and heads bobbing in the grass, moving swiftly across the field, right toward us, until—
Two dark shadows race across the edge of the field, one of them moving swiftly ahead of the other. I strain to make out their identities in the gloom. Just as my eyes feel like they’re going to pop out of my head, there’s movement from the magic-born army before us. They snarl and roar and stomp and take off, streaming into the field. At almost the exact same moment, one of the shadows on the edge of the field charges into the high grass, silver flashing.
I’d know that sword anywhere, its blade splitting into three with each stroke. Rhett is here.
I almost cry out, scream his name—God knows I want to—but I manage to restrain myself, pointing like an obsessed fan at a celebrity, breathlessly hissing “Rhett! Rhett!” until Bil and Hex both follow my gaze and see him.
Hex’s tail wags furiously and Bil says, “Well I’ll be damned.”
With a final shout to Chloe to “Stay here!” we race forward into battle.
~~~
Rhett
Despite the fact that I can sense massive forms looming in my peripheral vision to the right, I’m much more concerned with the barely visible shifting of grass in the field in my direct line of sight, moving toward the humans with nearly imperceptible speed.
Well before I can get there, the ripple of grass reaches them and one of the human heads—a gray-bearded man wearing a snowcap—is sucked down amidst a cut-off scream and a vicious snarl. It’s like he’s there and then not, pulled into the earth itself by an invisible hand. The raw jerk of the downward motion causes his arm to shoot up in the opposite direction, flailing, flinging his torch high in the air. The flaming stick arcs, spinning end over end in a fiery sphere. Even as the torch continues its strangely beautiful flight path, more heads are sucked under as a cacophony of screams and snarls blasts the night to pieces.
I don’t stop, ripping the field to shreds, fighting my way into the bloody scene before me. Dozens of human bodies already litter the ground, leaking blood from slashed open throats and torn out hearts. Weapons are strewn about, and torches too, lighting small fires that are already growing, probing through the bent grass, seeking food to satisfy their insatiable appetites for destruction.
The Shifters’ first wave included the big cats, leopards and panthers and cheetahs and other powerful beasts I can’t readily identify, all of whom are ripping through the humans as if they’re no more substantial than a string of paper dolls. Some of the humans are firing weapons, both normal and magical, and I recognize some of them as Floss’s witch hunters. Though there’s an occasional yelp and the slamming of a fallen beast to the ground, for the most part the Shifters are able to dodge their bullets with seemingly supernatural speed.
Rage that’s as hot as the brushfires burns through me and I charge forward into the fray, stabbing my sword into the back of a panther that’s chewing on a woman’s lifeless leg. The animal spins and collapses, its own
blood welling from its fanged mouth and mingling with the woman’s blood already on its lips. The Shifter isn’t Flora.
I whirl around, seeking my next target, hacking at a cougar that attempts to pounce on me, each of my sword’s three magical blades embedding themselves deeper and deeper into the animal’s thick muscled neck, until with a wet gruesome gurgle, I sever it completely, watching with morbid interest while the disembodied head sprays a rainbow of blood as it tumbles to the earth, bouncing twice before being stopped between a pair of dark claws. As I raise my chin to lay eyes on my next Shifter opponent, her deadly yellow eyes burn into mine.
Flora.
With unbridled force, she bats the head of her fallen comrade away, stalking toward me bearing a wicked smile. My muscles tense as I raise my sword, which has once more converged into a single blade. The Shifter leader looks like she’s about to say something, but her jaw snaps shut when the others arrive, hitting simultaneously from both sides, the tall grass crumbling beneath them.
From one end, the Necros drive their Reanimate army, a swarm of darkness carrying the foul breath of death, throwing themselves on the big cats without regard for their undead bodies. Amongst them are beacons of light, glowing angelic forms, the Claires, who scream, high-pitched keens that threaten to obliterate my eardrums. I’ve heard such screams before from their Mother. Trish saved me from certain destruction using just such a scream. This time, the screams douse the fires and seem to penetrate the flesh and bones of the Shifters, blasting apart their bodies in gory animal explosions, splattering ichor and bone fragments across the battlefield. The violence of the Claires is something I never really believed until I saw it with my own eyes. Other magic-born allies arrive, too, firing spells and curses at any Shifter that moves. Mags’s ghouls fill the air, shrieking with pent-up aggression, hurling inanimate objects in all directions.
From the other end comes the thunderous churn of animal feet, their roars and screeches and growls only just preceding their claws and fangs. Elephants and gorillas and buffalo and snakes and great winged beasts, which swoop down from above, plucking their enemies from the ground with sharp talons and carrying them high in the air before dropping them to their deaths. Bodies are literally falling from the sky, a human hailstorm. Running amidst the Shifters are their promised magic-born allies, teased away from their previous support of President Washington. Pyros and Mediums—whose poltergeists careen across the sky with bloodcurdling howls, tossing boulders and entire tree trunks to the ground below, crushing dozens of Reanimates—and Volts and Destroyers and Spellcasters and Slammers, as tall and wide as the elephants, join the battle.
