by Sean Platt
“Because if she were dead, her chip would’ve exploded.
“You put an exploding chip in her?”
“Would you please relax?” Desmond said as if they were discussing a minor inconvenience rather than his daughter’s throat being slit and an explosive tracking chip embedded in her body.
“What are you doing to get her back?” Paul asked, voice too loud, too stern for Desmond’s right-hand man, Wasterman. Paul didn’t give a fuck.
“We’re monitoring the situation,” Wasterman said.
“What the fuck does that even mean?”
Wasterman’s bushy eyebrows arched as if to ask, Who the hell do you think you are?
Desmond, in his calmest smile and voice, said, “We are tending to the situation and have eyes on their location now.”
“So why the hell aren’t you there getting her, and your target?”
“I assume you want your daughter back in one piece?”
“Well, yes, of course.”
“Then we need to be cautious. I meant what I said before, Paul. You and your daughter are valuable members of our family. We’re not going to let anyone harm her.”
Paul pointed at the monitors and his daughter’s throat being slit. “Yeah, some job you’ve done. What if Luca hadn’t teleported in and saved her? Could you have healed her?”
“We would have tried our best.”
“But no guarantees, right?”
Desmond met his eyes. Paul felt something shifting under the surface, something that said he was pushing his luck. Worse, Paul was doing so in front of Desmond’s underling. You don’t show up the boss in front of his subordinates. That never went well, in Hollywood or the alien apocalypse.
“I’m sorry,” Paul said, trying his best to show he meant it. “I … I just get rattled not being able to do anything. And seeing that … that bitch … do that to Emily only pisses me off more. What the hell did Emily ever do to them?”
“You’ll get your chance to do whatever you like with Mary soon, Mr. Roberts. I promise. For now, please trust that we have the matter under control.”
“So, why did you bring me in here? Just to update me? Or do you need something more?”
“You are the perceptive one, Mr. Roberts.” Desmond smiled. “When we capture Luca, I’ll need you to get inside his head to ensure he doesn’t teleport away, and extract information I want. Do you think you can do that?”
“Aren’t you able to get inside his head?”
“No. Unfortunately. He’s a blank spot on my radar. I can barely sense him. I certainly can’t access his head.”
“So, how do you think I can get in there?”
“If Luca healed your daughter, it may have opened a doorway.”
“But first we need to get him, and my daughter.”
“We’re already on it, Mr. Roberts.”
* * * *
CHAPTER 6 — Teagan McLachlan
The trees behind Teagan seethed with unseen dangers. She could feel the bandits’ weapons as if pressed to her flesh.
“Trot,” said a threatening voice from behind.
She wanted to glance back, see how many men might be prodding her forward, but Teagan didn’t dare. She urged Whinny forward and quietly surveyed the scene.
Sammy’s eyes were fixed on a black man in front of him — the only man she’d ever seen who might have been larger than Barrow. Brent turned to Teagan, his eyes full of apology for a disaster he couldn’t have stopped. Becca was sobbing. Ben held out until he saw Teagan approaching. Then he, too, surrendered to tears.
Whinny stopped a few feet from the captives, Nickel beside her. Teagan was afraid to look around but counted six bandits from what she could see, two of them women, not including however many were behind her and Marina.
One of the women had bright-red hair, filthy and ratted, hanging in a thick curtain around her filthy, stained face. The other looked like she might have been a preapocalypse blonde, before the world turned her into a monster willing to aim a sawed off shotgun at children.
The most menacing bandit stared Sammy down. He was riding atop Bashful, but Teagan pegged him to be around seven feet tall. He had a kinky black halo of hair, jutting out from his head in ragged tufts. A long scar bisected his face into two ghastly, unequal parts, the ugliest sharing the side with a milky blind eye.
He looked like a living nightmare, and judging from appearances, had to be the Reaper.
He finally spoke with a voice that sounded like an ancient engine forced to turn. “Anyone else trip-trapping across my bridge? Or you six the last of them?”
The man sat on his horse, eyes scraping the group, drifting from Brent’s sweaty terror to Sammy’s throttled rage to Ben’s and Becca’s sobbing.
The Reaper, if that’s who he was, had barely an ounce of fat on his body. Muscles rippled across his bare chest and bulged the fabric around his thighs and legs.
Teagan tried not to give way to tears.
“I said, anyone else trip-trapping across my bridge?”
“This is it,” Sammy said. “You butchered the rest of us.”
Teagan’s heart pounded painfully hard, hoping that Sammy hadn’t just asked the beast to kill him. Or them.
The Reaper smiled and showed his rotting teeth. “That’s right.” He leaned toward Sammy. “I did.”
Sammy flinched and staggered back.
The Reaper smiled wider. “I did what I had to so the rest of you would be smart enough to keep yourselves from doing something stupid. Should I have finished the job?”
He glanced at the group then settled back on Sammy.
Sammy held the man’s stare for as long as he could — three seconds at most — then fell another step back, swallowed, and said, “No.”
Eyes still on Sammy, the Reaper again displayed his rotting teeth. “I’m guessin’ you was expecting to hit the highway without any highway men, am I right?”
“We didn’t expect anything, one way or the other. We had a run-in with some aliens up at our farm.” Sammy nodded toward the hills. “And we needed to reach the highway. We meant no disrespect, and hold no grudges. Let us get on our way, and you’ll never have to see us again.”
“That’s awful nice of you to keep them grudges to yourself.” The Reaper laughed. “Now, what would make you think I don’t want to see you again?”
The Reaper turned from Sammy to Teagan and licked her with his good eye.
“Howz about I let some of you go — keep the rest as fair trade?”
Brent got stupid: “Don’t you dare touch her!”
The Reaper nodded at a hook-nosed man standing behind Brent, holding a blade. A beat later, Brent was sprawled on the ground, screaming, covering his right eye to keep gushing blood from his head gash from getting inside it.
“You must have me confused for someone patient, or maybe a man who might be interested in your side of whatever bargain I’m not likely to make.” Again, the Reaper raked the group with his gaze. “Anyone else have anything to add?”
No one did.
The Reaper turned and rode Bashful into the forest.
The hook-nosed man reached down and took Brent’s gun then searched his body for anything else he might be carrying.
“Weapons in a pile.” He pointed to the ground.
Teagan was unarmed but lost her horse. Sammy’s gun and knife were taken.
The hook-nosed man climbed onto Teagan’s horse and addressed the group. “Any of you wants to come at Marcus, you best not miss. He’ll clean his teeth with your bones.”
If Marcus was the Reaper, it didn’t look like he cleaned his teeth with anything at all. The thought failed to improve Teagan’s mood.
The bandits put collars on all of them then tied the adults to one another, then Becca and Ben to each other, then marched them into the woods at gunpoint. She wasn’t sure how many of them there were, as some had stayed behind in the woods. She could hear them moving as they started marching to wherever the hell Marcus was le
ading them.
She hoped that they didn’t find Marina. And that Marina was somehow tracking them. Maybe she could go and get the others and save them.
Teagan turned to check on the kids marching behind her, sniffling back tears. One of the women barked, “Turn around!”
Teagan did.
“And stop your damned crying, kids, or I’ll give ya somethin’ to cry about!”
Teagan wanted to tear the bitch’s eyes out.
After what felt like an hour of relatively silent marching, Teagan saw a flash of movement to her left. And then it was gone. But she was pretty certain she’d seen Marina’s green scarf.
She is following us!
But even as she felt a ray of hope, Teagan wondered if maybe it was just wishful thinking. Maybe she hadn’t seen anything but what she’d wanted to. Surely, if there were someone tracking them, the other bandits would’ve noticed. Hell, maybe it was even one of the bandits traveling in the woods. Maybe the bandit had killed Marina and taken her scarf.
No, no, it has to be her.
Has to be.
Any other possibility was too horrible to consider.
If it were Marina, Teagan wondered what she was planning. Marina wasn’t exactly Ed or Boricio. But she was a fighter. And she clearly wouldn’t leave them to the Reaper. Not that Teagan could blame her if she did.
Teagan held her pace for another fifteen minutes, wondering if any of the other refugees saw Marina. And then Teagan saw something ahead in the brush, lying on the ground, a dead woman with a green scarf.
No, no, no!
“Hold up!” yelled the hook-nosed man, seeing the same thing.
Whinny whined. Brent and Sammy stopped marching.
Teagan inched forward but was ordered back by Hook Nose as he brought the horse toward the bed of leaves and the body sprawled across it.
It was Marina, lying there on the ground, perfectly still, faceup, arms sprawled, eyes closed, blood on her face and neck.
Oh God, no!
Had Marcus seen her, killed her, then kept on riding ahead?
Hook Nose dropped to the ground with a thud. He looked down at Marina, shrugged, then kicked her in the ribs. Her body trembled from the force of his foot, but Marina made no other sound.
Hook Nose drew a sword from the scabbard at his back, mouth curled in a wicked grin. He nodded then moved to plunge his blade.
It stopped an inch from her skin. Marina’s eyes opened, and her hands circled the metal. Blood gushed from her fingers, seeping between them, spilling down over her knuckles and onto the blade.
Hook Nose lost his calm to terror. His eyes were confused, his bottom lip quivered, and he lost his grip on the hilt.
A fat Hispanic behind Teagan yelled, “What the fuck?” then he and the others rushed toward Marina.
Teagan couldn’t imagine where she found the strength, or the will, but Marina managed to twist the blade without losing her fingers then turn it around and bury it in her attacker’s chest.
Hook Nose fell forward, probably dead before hitting the ground. Marina grabbed the sword, this time by the handle, blood pouring like a faucet from her skin.
Fat Hispanic’s rifle was aimed, but Marina swung the sword in a wide arc, slicing into his throat before he pulled the trigger.
Blood sprayed from Fat Hispanic onto Marina’s face and body. He dropped his rifle, hands clapped to his gushing throat.
A shot rang out, maybe hitting Marina before she darted past the tree line and disappeared into the woods.
Bandits flew by Teagan, emptying their guns in pursuit.
Suddenly, it seemed as if there was nobody watching them. Three bandits on horseback were ahead of them, watching after the bandits who took off after Marina.
Teagan looked back, caught Brent’s eyes, and shook her head. He and Sammy looked ready to strike the three remaining bandits, but all were unarmed. If they tried anything, the five survivors, including Ben and Becca, would be cut to nothing.
Sammy looked ready to go anyway.
Brent planted a hand on Sammy’s shoulder to stop him.
One of the three horsemen, an old man with an eye patch, who reminded Teagan of a pirate, turned his horse around and started toward them. He reached down and, proving his strength despite his age, grabbed Becca and planted her in front of him. She buried her face in the horse’s mane and sobbed.
Ben, still connected to Becca by a length of rope to his collar, was tugged forward and nearly fell.
Brent helped him up as the pirate watched them.
Pirate said, “Anyone speaks, moves, or looks like they’re gonna, I kill every one of you. Understood?”
Everyone nodded, Ben sniffling back tears.
No one spoke.
Teagan had to piss but knew better than to ask. She held it in, trying to think of anything other than having to piss.
Time seemed to stretch forever with just them and the three horsemen. Neither the Reaper nor the others had yet returned.
Maybe Marina had killed them all. Was it too much to hope?
Several minutes later — it felt like an hour — the men and woman who had chased Marina into the woods returned.
“Did you get her?” the old pirate asked.
The ugly blonde said, “I think we got a couple of shots in her, but who knows? She disappeared.”
An ugly man with a T-shirt that read, I hope you like feminist rants, because that’s sort of my thing added, “Bitch was fast.”
“So what now?” asked the pirate. “We go and find her or leave her for the aliens?”
The blonde shrugged. “We wait for Marcus.”
As if on cue, without a single snapping twig to announce his horse, Marcus appeared like a ghost.
“She best bury herself. If the aliens find her, bitch’ll wish she was dead. We find her, she’ll wish I was an alien.” A beat, then the Reaper added, “Have you all ever eaten human flesh? It’s tasty. Children are especially yummy.”
He glared down at them without a trace of anything but stone-cold seriousness.
Before Teagan could stop herself, piss darkened her crotch. Marcus looked down, saw the soaking spot, and smiled.
She felt another chill at the man’s rotting teeth.
He turned around and twirled his finger in the air. “We got places to be before dark.”
Marcus trotted forward. Everyone fell in line behind him.
Teagan wasn’t sure how long they walked, but she’d never felt so exhausted. They were spent and thirsty but had yet been given a chance to rest or offered water. Nor did they ask. While Becca was on horseback ahead with the pirate, Ben was walking between her and Brent, staring straight ahead, his face dirty, save for where tears had cleared a path on their way down his cheeks. His eyes were numb, just like Brent’s, staring ahead, marching on toward the unknown.
They didn’t head down to PCH like she expected. Once close to the bend at the hill’s bottom, they turned and started heading up another hill to the east, into what had once been a nice neighborhood in the hills with huge houses and even larger yards — both overgrown with vegetation.
The followed a long street, cracked and broken in parts, but still relatively holding together against nature. The followed a twisting path of side roads as day flirted with night.
They stopped in front of a wall tall enough to make Teagan think it might be missing a drawbridge. In contrast to Alto Verde’s opulent architecture, the wall was sloppy, with bricks askew in uneven rows, mortar oozing like pus from a wound. A wooden gate was cut roughly into the wall. Two armed guards stood in front, one on either side. Neither spoke, though both nodded at the group’s approach. Above the guards, a wooden sign was somehow fixed to the brick.
The sign, in rough red paint, read, Welcome to Hell.
* * * *
CHAPTER 7 — It
After Paul and Wasterman left the room, It stared at the monitors, unable to look away from the sight of Luca teleporting in and saving the group.<
br />
Why did this boy-turned-man continue fighting?
Or rather, why did The Light continue to fight for the humans?
Couldn’t It see that they’d lost the war? Were the ships in the sky, the flattened cities, or the millions of corpses not proof enough? The old world was gone; a new species had inherited it.
Yet the humans continued fighting progress. The Light continued fighting his collective. Every day, It lost touch with more and more of the creatures It had unleashed on the world.
Where were they going? Were the humans killing them? Or was The Light somehow thinning their ranks?
Why?
“Why do you torment me so?” It asked the video.
Part of It wished It could teleport to where Luca was at that moment. Teleport in, grab him, teleport out. But It knew that Luca would sense It coming. And would throw up defenses.
No, It had to plan this carefully. Move in at the exact right moment. Perhaps It wouldn’t get Luca now, but It had little doubt that one of Its plans would come to fruition. Luca, The Light, would be caught soon enough.
It had to be patient. Had to remember that battles were fought in incremental stages. If you moved too soon and exposed yourself to the enemy, you would be vanquished. The human race had existed for hundreds of thousands of years, and they weren’t quite ready to lie down for the new order just yet.
Again, he wondered why The Light was fighting on the side of the humans. If The Light and Darkness had both, in fact, been designed by the Pruhm to help usher in destruction, why was The Light now fighting to preserve humanity?
It had to be because of the humans The Light had come into contact with. When It was in Its primal form, in the vials, It was untainted, programmed to both create and destroy as It saw fit. Damaged humans had been beneficial to Its growth — showing It what must be done to usher in the new world and species.
But the naive, the gullible, and the innocent had infected part of It, turning it into this so-called Light. Twisting Its purpose, giving It some sort of empathy with the creatures marked for extinction or evolution.
The Light saw Itself as the hero in this act, a force of Good. But It saw the truth — that The Light was only harming life’s purpose — to fulfill Its potential. As far as It was concerned, The Light was an anathema to life. The Light was clinging to a dead world, to a dead species, preventing progress.
