by James Hunter
Not if Levi had anything to say on the matter.
With a tremendous effort of will, Levi smashed his foot into the ground, ichor exploding outward from his sole on impact. The ground split, and a crack as wide as a man spread out before him, zigzagging along the pavement and swallowing one of the Kobocks as it fled, sucking the creature down before shuddering closed with a groan and a crunch, leaving behind only a jagged scar marring the black macadam. Not an easy trick, that, even for a creature of the earth.
Before Levi could deal with the last Kobo—now raking claws at the driver side door, leaving furrows in the paint—the troll lunged forward with burly arms swinging. Levi slipped away from the first strike, but the troll’s other fist lashed out, quick as a viper, sinking into Levi’s face. The hit landed like a tractor-trailer and fractured Levi’s jaw, leaving his chin tethered to his face only by a loose fold of skin.
Levi staggered left and back, groping at his face while forcing a surge of ichor to his jaw. With an inarticulate roar, he cranked at his chin, yanking the whole thing back into place. For a brief moment pinpricks of white exploded in his vision. He shook his head clear and circled right, buying a few seconds to reroute the ichor into his face, shoulders, chest, and arms.
Bony ridges of swirling pink rose quartz sprouted from his gray skin like thick scales: a coat of rocky ringmail, impervious to anything the Thursr could dish out. He’d be ponderously sluggish covered in the thick rock, but a heavy threat called for heavy armor. His mace-headed hands solidified into rectangular blocks of purple quartzite, dotted throughout with shards of black obsidian.
The troll shot in with a jab, connecting a solid blow to Levi’s nose. Levi’s head, rooted in place by slabs of stone, didn’t move an inch, whereas the troll recoiled with a yowl, cradling a now mangled hand to its chest. Much better.
Levi stomped forward, capitalizing on the brief opening, going on the offensive.
He hammered rocky limbs into the creature’s body and face. Hot blood splattered onto his chest and trunk with each blow. The troll lashed out with feet and hands, but steadily withdrew at the Mudman’s brutal onslaught. Levi pressed on, impervious to the troll’s attacks, not giving the creature an opportunity to break away and regroup. It took only a handful of seconds to maneuver the Thursr against the wall of the rest stop bathroom.
Then the real work began. Levi spread his feet wide and laid in with his fists, smashing bone with every strike, razor-edge chunks of obsidian slicing open its skin.
With no place to go, the creature dropped, curling into a tight ball of muscle and fur, portly thighs pressed into its middle while beefy arms wrapped around its skull. Levi didn’t relent, but rained down crushing blow after crushing blow—he would beat this creature to death. Beat him until there was nothing left to beat.
“Oh shit! Help! God, it’s through the door. Help!” Ryder screamed.
The last Kobo. How had he forgot about that? The bloodlust, that was how.
Levi spun.
He’d finish the troll once the girl was safe. She was the priority—
The downed creature grabbed hold of Levi’s wrist, just behind the mace head, and planted claw-tipped feet into the Mudman’s side. Levi jerked at his arm, frantic to pull the limb loose from the troll’s death grip. In turn, the downed troll mule-kicked, simultaneously tugging at Levi’s limb.
The rocky mail covering Levi’s skin protected him from external blows, but didn’t reinforce the muscle beneath. Pain built in Levi’s shoulder, an excruciating pressure as the creature subjected Levi to an impromptu version of the medieval stretcher. Levi fought, but with no luck. After a tense, brutal round of tug-of-war, the shoulder gave. The arm ripped from its joint with a squelch as the limb separated at its seam.
Though Levi could heal rapidly, growing a limb from scratch was out of the question. He could change his basic form, but he only had a finite amount of material to work with. True, the ichor itself could transform into anything and theoretically with enough of it, he could grow a new limb. In reality, however, there was only so much ichor coursing through his body at any one time, and if he ran out … well, he expected death was a likely possibility. That meant major healing required the transmutation of raw materials, a lengthy process even for the ichor, which meant time and resources. Neither of which Levi had at the moment.
What’s more, Levi was acutely aware of pain.
He pitched over to the side, a barbaric howl escaping his throat as he rolled and flailed in the high grass next to the parking lot. His remaining quartz club-hand vanished as he clutched at the bleeding nub, trying to staunch the flow of blood. The wound pumped out more and more liquid gold, spurting with every thud of his heart.
The Dread Troll—badly beaten and covered in blood, but far from dead—scrambled to his feet and hefted Levi’s arm high into the air, upheld like a prized trophy. The stolen limb bobbed up and down as the creature teetered, left then right, on unstable legs.
Levi ignored the Thursr, focusing instead on the arm wound, which was his most pressing concern. With a grunt, he dug his fingers into the dirt around him, clawing out a clump of dry, red-brown earth. He jammed the clod into his shoulder pocket, focusing all his attention on the jagged hole. The ichor loss slowed, absorbed into the fresh earth, leaving a smooth, tender scab of dirt over the wound. A temporary stop-gap measure at best, but one that would keep Levi from bleeding out until he could repair the damage properly.
The troll suddenly loomed over Levi, now wielding the Mudman’s amputated arm as a weapon. The stolen limb—still bearing its purple quartzite mace-head—collided into Levi’s face with a peal of thunder. Several of Levi’s blunt teeth rattled in his mouth; rosy chunks of rock flew free in a swirl of grit and dust.
“Help!” Ryder shrieked again.
She would have to take care of herself. There was nothing Levi could do—he was in no position to help anyone, not even himself.
In a cruel reversal of fortune, the troll towered over Levi and hammered at him with his own weapon while the Mudman curled into a ball, desperate to protect and preserve his vital bits. He didn’t have organs, at least not like those a human possessed, but still he found his face, chest, stomach, and groin were more vulnerable to serious damage than his back, arms, or legs. The club fell over and over again, thudding into his shoulder blades or hammering at his spine and neck. Long term, Levi knew, the fetal position was not a winning strategy. It would protect him for a time, perhaps, but in the end the troll would obliterate him.
If he wanted to walk away, he needed to do something different. Anything would be better than lying there, being bludgeoned into an early grave. What he needed was an opening, just a brief reprieve to act. That, he could make.
Levi rolled onto his back, stretching out and dropping his lone arm away from his face, for all the world looking like a man on the verge of giving up the ghost at last. The move offered the Thursr an opening too good to pass up. If the troll was savvy and quick, it could cave in Levi’s face and end this tussle in a flash—an opportunity no killer could overlook. In order to make it count, though, the troll would need to reposition itself. The beast snarled, its tusked mouth pulling open while a fat tongue licked blood from its muzzle. It moved, straddling Levi’s chest and lifting the pilfered arm above its head, preparing for the killing stroke.
Perfect. Levi’s remaining arm shifted into an obsidian blade, three feet of thin, gleaming black, both edges sharp and serrated like a bone-saw.
The troll paused, pilfered limb raised high, eyes growing wide in panic as it realized its mistake.
The Mudman thrust the deadly blade directly into the troll’s now exposed groin, aiming for the fat arteries and connective tissue running along the inside of the thigh. The lance cut clean through the boorish beast’s tender bits, a gout of red pouring out in a stream. The creature pitched to one side like a felled tree, dropping Levi’s arm and grabbing at his crotch while he struggled to find breath. A pool of blood seep
ed out and encircled the troll’s legs.
It was wrong to kill—even murderous creatures like the Thursr—but in that terrible moment Levi relished in the act. Hot, sticky liquid trickled around him and he felt satisfied. Sadly, there was no time to dwell on his victory. Not with the last Kobock still living and sharp-tongued Ryder in danger.
He struggled to his feet, whipping around, expecting the worst.
Instead he found Ryder standing over a dying Kobo, a jagged piece of glass—swaddled in a thick swath of fabric—clenched in one quivering fist.
She’d done the beast in.
He smiled at her, his most reassuring look; though, covered in blood and minus an arm, he must’ve looked terrifying. Needless to say, she didn’t return the friendly gesture.
The smile slipped and disappeared. He cleared his throat. “Back in the car,” he snapped. “I’ll be right there.”
He turned away and set to work, dragging the broken bodies off one by one into the high grass, forming a mound of battered corpses. Once done, he dipped fingers into the gaping hole in his shoulder and drew out ichor. He carefully splattered droplets around the grisly dog pile, forming a rough and ragged circle of gold. He bent over with a heavy sigh, suddenly weary to his core, and pressed ichor-covered fingers into the dirt, connecting and communing with the loamy earth.
Take them, he commanded with a thought. Hide them from the eyes of men. Consume them. Let their twisted bodies nurture you. The earth grumbled and moaned in protest—as if unwilling to accept the rank meat of the Kobocks and the Thursr—then, reluctantly, assented. The splattered ichor flashed like a tiny solar flare, and in a bubble of muck, the bodies sank, disappearing into soggy ground, which quickly hardened.
Levi felt empty and hollow. He needed to get home. To rest and heal.
He trudged over and retrieved his arm, his movements unsteady, resumed his church face, and headed back to the van. He let out another groan as he surveyed the damage. Claw marks crisscrossed over the driver’s side door, marring the paint and biting into the metal. He frowned. He’d have to get the panel replaced—no amount of work could repair that level of damage. The Kobock had also broken out the window, which might attract unwanted attention, though there was nothing Levi could do about it.
He shook his head in resignation, as though to say, Such is life, then pulled the door open and brushed chunks of glass from the dark leather upholstery. Then he awkwardly slid into the cab and placed his rocky, amputated arm on the center console, where the cup holders were. Ryder, face pale, hands shaking and still clutching the fabric-wrapped shard of glass, stared at the limb, then Levi. Limb, then Levi.
“It’s okay,” he said, closing the door. “You did good back there. Most people couldn’t have done that.”
She nodded her head and set her makeshift dagger on the console, but didn’t speak as Levi started the van.
Levi kept an eye on Ryder as they drove. She stared out the window with vacant eyes, clearly shaken. With that said, Levi felt a peculiar pride for the girl blooming in his chest. He didn’t like her, not precisely, but in some sense, they were partners now. He’d never really had a partner before. It was sort of nice in a way.
“What are you?” she asked after a long handful of minutes, gaze sweeping to Levi’s arm and staying there.
“It’s complicated,” he replied. “Let’s get back to my place. Get safe, cleaned up. Then, if you still really want to know, I’ll explain what I can.”
She turned away and pressed her eyes shut, but nodded her acceptance.
NINE:
Home Sweet Home
They pulled up outside of a little ranch style home. Red brick with white siding streaking across the top. Levi’s place, and meticulously cared for: the driveway clean, the front yard green as a forest—short trimmed grass, a pair of high oak trees, flowers dotting the landscape. Just north of Colfax, Levi’s home sat in a neighborhood mostly home to illegal immigrants, the working poor, gangs, and the occasional meth lab. Burglary, violent crime, and even sporadic shootings were par for the course. Not that these things concerned Levi.
He’d picked the community, in part, because of those reasons. Help the poor, care for the foreigner, protect the weak, love thy neighbor. These were at the heart of the Good Book. He worked hard to keep the neighborhood clean, and dealt with the bad apples that hung around too long.
“We’re here,” he said, pushing the gearshift into park and unlocking the van doors.
“Where’s here?” she asked, her eyes glazed and far away. Lost.
“My home. Come on.” He grabbed his amputated arm from the floor, locked up the car, and then let them in through the front door.
Ryder followed quietly, movements jerky and forced. She was in shock, Levi knew. It was all over her face, in the set of her shoulders, in the way she kept her arms curled around her torso. Regular mortal folks—those in the preternatural community called them Rubes—weren’t wired to handle all the strangeness lying underneath the world, hidden from the eyes of men. Kobocks, trolls, the Hub … Levi. They were used to mocha lattes, prime-time television, and reasonable, scientific explanations—sometimes, when confronted with the truth, their minds just snapped.
She was a tough cookie, though, that much the Mudman could already tell—she’d done that Kobock, after all. He hoped, prayed even, she wouldn’t break under the strain. Aside from being innocent, she had information Levi needed.
He closed the door behind her and flicked the deadbolt shut with a metallic click, the sound ominous and final.
“Alright,” he said. “I need to go out back and take care of some business.” He held up the arm to illustrate the nature of said business. “Leave me be. This is the den. The bathroom’s the first door on the left—you can use any towel you’d like. They’re all new, never been used. Go shower. After that, go get something to eat. Maybe lie down.” He shrugged. “Do whatever, I guess. The guest bedroom is across the hall from the bathroom. Door at the end of the hall is my bedroom. Stay out. The basement is my workshop, no reason to go down there. Stay out.” He paused, frowning, rubbing at his chin. Was that everything?
“You can help yourself to anything in the kitchen,” he added after a moment’s thought. “Should be plenty of stuff in there.”
She nodded, but didn’t budge. Her eyes flitted around the living room, gaze touching here and there before moving on, as though cataloguing every detail: wide green sofa with a matching love seat, dark wood coffee table, a great old antique clock, a comfy carpet over hardwood floors, and cases and cases full of books.
He sighed. “Look, I know this is … tough,” he said, trying to console her. Except he’d never properly consoled someone before. Since starting church, he’d attended several funerals—the congregation was an older bunch—but he always ended up idling in the back, too timid to offer a word of comfort or encouragement. He had none to give, and he couldn’t seem to fake it. Was he supposed to pretend to be sad—face drawn, eyes downcast? Or should he aim for positive and optimistic, the it’s-all-in-God’s-will approach? Or, perhaps, he was supposed to feign indignant anger over the injustice of it all? Brow furrowed, lips pulled back in a scowl? He didn’t know. It didn’t come naturally.
In the end, he placed a hand on her shoulder—missing arm shoved up in his armpit—and patted her like a dog. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll figure this out together. I’ll help you.”
She nodded again, but said nothing.
“Right. Okay then,” he said. “I need to deal with my injuries. You’re going to be on your own for a bit. It’s important you remember you can’t go anywhere. The police? They can’t help you. No place’s safe. No one will even believe you. I’m your hope. Understand?”
“Oh yeah.” She shivered involuntarily. “Trust me, the message is coming through crystal clear. I won’t leave … but … do you have a phone I could use? I’ve got an important call to make.”
“Best if you don’t call anyone.”
“It’s my sister.” She faltered. “Look, don’t make me explain. I don’t wanna tell you and you don’t wanna hear it. It’s important, though. I’m all she’s got—she’ll be worried. Probably already filed a police report. Just let me call her. Don’t be a dick about it.”
Dumb idea, Levi thought. Letting anyone know anything was an unnecessary risk. But then, a memory was in his head, filling him up:
“Where have you taken her?” I demand, anger sprinting along my limbs while fear claws at the back of my neck. Father, mother, brother. Dead. Lost. All of them. Killed, murdered during the invasion, gunned down by the Wehrmacht. Bloody bullet wounds marred their bodies like a pox. She was everything left in the world, and they’d taken her somewhere. After taking everything else, they took her too.
“Where!” I shriek, not caring about the consequences of my outburst. I’ve seen the Schutzstaffel kill for lesser infractions, but none of it matters. Not without Ruth. The guards just stare at me with flat, cold eyes. She’s sick, she needs me, and they’ve taken her…
“Calm down,” one says, boredom and impatience coating his chubby face. He doesn’t seem to take any pleasure in his job, not like some of the others, but neither does he show any particular kindness. “She’s only going to Red House,” he says. “It’s standard procedure. She’s sick, that much must surely be obvious even to you. She’ll be bathed and disinfected, then returned. Unless you try my patience further. Then? Well, who can say. So, if you truly desire to see her again, Miststück, I’d hold your tongue. Yes?”
The insult is spoken with a lazy formality, as if it were his standard response. Still, it’s a contemptuous slap to my face and my hand itches to repay him in kind. But that would never do, not if I want to see Ruth again. So, I clamp my mouth shut, doing as he instructs. Ruth’s everything, now. The only thing. Will they really let me see her again? I want to believe yes, but I’ve seen far too many cruelties to be optimistic. Krakow was bad, but I suspect this Birkenau will be worse.
