This time he crashed face first and blacked out completely.
Sebastian dropped Bart’s limp body at the base of the tree. Unconscious or dead, it did not matter. He turned and ran for the house, ignoring the blaze of pain in his side.
* * *
Archer climbed the stairs first, shotgun still at the ready. The hallway loomed dark and empty, and he waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the faint wash of silvery moonlight coming in through the front windows. All the doors hung open, and the women made no sound to give away their positions. He and Tim glanced at one another, making brief eye contact as if reassuring one another before continuing. Tim pointed at the first door on their left and Archer nodded. They moved side-by-side down the hall.
They hardly took three steps before the front door crashed inward, the jamb cracking off in shards that clattered against the walls and floor. They heard Sebastian’s heavy footsteps come pounding into the living room.
The last shards of wood still skittered across the floor as someone emerged from a doorway up the hall and ran at them, shrieking like a banshee. Archer caught a flash of fangs and raised claws as she rushed past the open doorways. Red eyes glimmered beneath thick curly locks of red hair. He turned the shotgun back around pulled the trigger.
The witch made it into his firing arc too swiftly and his shot went wide. A small cluster of pellets peppered her meaty thigh, but she ignored it as she pounced on Archer. She slammed into his chest and knocked him past Tim and onto the floor. He fell down shouting as the shotgun slipped from his grip. He scrabbled at the carpeting to get a grip on something, anything, to help drag himself away from the creature clawing and chewing his side and neck. In his panic, he seized Tim by the ankle.
Tim, tripped by Archer’s grip, fell just as Sebastian reached the top of the stairs. He landed on his knees and felt his hand brush across the pump grip of the shotgun. He instinctively grabbed it and pushed himself up and backwards. The creature ripped into Archer’s viscera and splattered them across the floor and wall. He gagged and barely kept himself from vomiting as Archer thrashed and gurgled.
She turned to face him, then, and he saw the creature was actually Gretchen, somehow transformed into a hideous beast. She snarled and flashed a bloody grin at him. Sebastian started to move around her, gesturing and murmuring at the same time.
Tim fell onto his back and pumped the shotgun, chambering the next round. Sighting down the length of his body, he aimed between the two beasts and fired. He intended for the buckshot to spread and hit both creatures, but they were too dose for an adequate spread. He pumped the weapon again as the first blast knocked Sebastian onto his back. Gretchen lunged forward and he squeezed the trigger.
The blast hammered her in the chest but did not slow her momentum. She landed heavily on Tim and flattened him. Her last breath, reeking of blood, expelled into his face.
As he struggled to get free he saw the satyr sit up, his right shoulder shredded and bleeding. Tim gasped and heaved Gretchen’s corpse onto its side. He pumped the shotgun and aimed, but before he could get another shot off it flew out of his hands and flew back down the hallway. He craned his head back and saw Alexandra leaning out of one doorway. The shotgun arced gracefully into her right hand. She held her left hand, still bleeding heavily, dose to her side.
“Shit!” Tim cried as he pushed himself up. He leapt through the nearest doorway. Something hit him in the back and shoved him forward into a wooden cabinet. The cabinet fell over and the glass in the doors shattered around him. Pieces cut into his arms as he tried to roll away.
“Finish him!” Alexandra shouted.
Tim saw something metallic glint in the cabinet and reached for it. His hand dosed on it the instant Sebastian grabbed his neck and shoulders. He pulled it free as he was lifted from the floor. Moonlight glinted across the blade of the dagger in his hand.
“It ends here, little man!” Sebastian snarled. With his good arm he lifted Tim straight up into the ceiling. Thankfully he hit between the beams, and his head did more damage to the ceiling than it did to him. The dust and chips threatened to blind him and he blinked rapidly.
Sebastian lowered him for another blow and Tim lashed out with the dagger. The point pierced the flesh of the satyr’s neck, cutting straight through muscle and jugular and scraping alongside his spine. Tim tried to pull it free and caused even more damage. A hot spray of blood spurted across his face. Sebastian relinquished his grip and Tim fell to the floor. He landed hard on his tailbone. Alexandra screamed from the doorway.
Sebastian backpedaled, crashing into the wall as he fumbled at the dagger lodged in his neck. Blood gurgled in his mouth as he finally ripped it free, the action only finishing the job Tim started. He dropped the dagger as his legs gave out beneath him. His body thudded heavily onto the floor at Tim’s feet.
Tim looked first at Alexandra, who held her hands to her mouth in disbelief, then at the dagger resting inches from his feet. His panicked self defense gave way to anger. He scooped up the dagger and lunged for her. Alexandra saw him coming, cried out weakly, and ran back into her room.
She slammed the door shut and it latched just before Tim threw his shoulder into it. He fumbled with the knob for a second before getting the door open. He hoped she did not have time to begin some conjuration or spell as he rushed inside.
He could barely see Alexandra in the far corner of the room. He heard her muttering urgently, none of the words even vaguely familiar. Tim took two strides into the room and jumped up onto the bed, suddenly realizing it was not only the darkness and moonlight that made her hard to see, but she somehow seemed partially transparent. The edges of the dresser behind her showed through her chest and back.
“No!” he shouted, jumping down between the bed and the dresser and swinging the dagger at her. She raised her hands in defense, still muttering the workings to her spell. The dagger passed through her harmlessly and bit deep into a dresser drawer. The corner of her lip turned up in a smile as she finished her incantation. Tim howled and stabbed repeatedly at her steadily disappearing form. He only managed to score nicks and scratches off the surface of the dresser.
Within seconds she faded away completely. He swung the dagger one last time, leaving it standing upright in the top of the dresser. He leaned back against the bed and wept, partially in frustration at her escape, partially in relief that it was over.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Three days passed before things finally began to settle down. The fighting stopped the previous morning as the combatants fell into an uneasy truce. Tim got the impression it had more to do with exhaustion and attrition rather than an actual desire for peace.
Tim spent much of that time in Alexandra’s house recuperating and taking it easy on his bruised and battered body. A few hours after his fight he moved all the bodies to the back yard, with the exception of Lucas’s greasy, charred remains which he could not bring himself to touch. Bart was alive, though he did not regain consciousness until the following afternoon. He had a concussion, and on top of his messed-up face he sported several bruised ribs and a fractured forearm. In spite of the bandages and a crude splint, Bart insisted on braving the fighting to survey the damage to the town.
With the satyr’s death and Alexandra’s disappearance, whatever influence they held over the valley’s climate disintegrated. The days turned hot and dry, the nights cold. Grass already began to shrivel and die, and some of the trees shed leaves they could no longer nourish. Tim suspected within a matter of weeks the valley would be a desert.
He slept during the hot days, usually following a cool shower. He woke early in the evening, dressed, and made a final decision to leave town. He ransacked Alexandra’s house and found his duffel bag, complete with his wallet and license, stashed in the bottom of one of her closets. He felt a little better about his chances in the outside world, but it did not matter. He did not feel Rapture would exist much longer.
Tim dropped his stuff on the dining roo
m table while he scrounged together something to eat out of the non-perishable items Alexandra kept in the cupboards. He glanced out into the back yard and saw Bart either returned or sent somebody to remove the bodies. Burying the dead became the first step toward the town’s attempts at recovery.
For the first time in those three days he considered the events of the past year. The messy divorce, the loss of his job, the “relationship” with Alexandra, and, ultimately, a pitched battle in the streets. Did differences in religion really bring it all on? Or was there some other deeper, inherent difference in men and women in which the religious dispute only served to provide an outlet?
He thought men and women, if not created equal, were created differently enough to supplement one another, to provide two halves of a whole. Traditionally, men are characteristically described as the hunters, the providers. The competitive and active side of the species, the conqueror. Women, on the other hand, are the caregivers. The ones who raised the children and tended the home while the man was out carving his mark into the world. The ones who provided strength and held the family together. Together there should have been balance, even in today’s politically correct American society. Yet it was these difference that also seemed to cause so much conflict.
He had a lot of soul searching to do, not only to reaffirm his faith in humanity but to try and make some sense of his shattered spirituality. Christianity said God was the one true deity, and paganism and magic were creations of primitive, unenlightened cultures. Yet he witnessed so much to contradict those beliefs.
It would be best, he decided, to get out of town as soon as possible. He would have the rest of his life to weigh the significance of all that happened. And, he knew, it was quite possible he still would not find the answers he sought. At least he would be able to do so in a world that was familiar and (relatively) sane.
He walked into the garage and hit the button to open the garage before he remembered the power outage. Tossing his duffel bag onto the floor beside his Camaro, he walked to the garage door and heaved it open. He then removed the cover from the car.
He smiled when he saw her. Her chrome fender and deep black paint gleamed in the moonlight. At least Alexandra had respect for a beautiful, classic car. While he had been beaten and abused, his favored possession survived unscathed.
He walked around to the driver’s side, beaming until he saw the long scratch in the paint. He went numb with shock and made a small, strangled cry. So much for her taking care of the car…
With a deep, resigned sigh he wiped the beginnings of the tears from his eyes and carefully placed his duffel on the front passenger seat. He climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut. The engine started with a roar, then settled to a sultry purr as it idled.
“At least the engine still runs nice,” he whispered bitterly as he backed out to the street.
He surveyed the damage as he drove through town. He saw hardly a window that had not been shattered, a fence that had not been knocked over, or a car that had not suffered some damage or other. Some houses had been burned, one block entirely decimated by flames. He saw virtually no sign of life on the streets, human or otherwise.
He drove past the church and was surprised to find it unharmed. He spied a light burning inside and, curious, he pulled over to the curb. The front doors stood ajar several inches and he silently pushed them open to peer inside.
A familiar figure clad in clean white bandages, knelt at the altar.
“Hi, Bart,” Tim said softly as he walked up the aisle.
Bart turned and looked over his shoulder briefly, then turned back to the altar. He whispered something, crossed himself with his good arm, and stood.
“Tim.”
A tangible uneasiness seemed to fill the air between the two men.
“We buried the others,” Bart said grimly. “We did not have time to perform individual burials or funerals. Shit, we didn’t even have time to make a list of the names of the dead. We piled them into a mass grave at one end of the cemetery and covered it over again.”
“You didn’t have much choice, man. Especially with the heat.”
“Tell it to God,” he replied sharply. Then, a moment later, “I’m sorry. It’s just so…”
“You don’t have to justify it.” Tim was not sure what he meant by “it,” but he was fairly sure “it” was a direct result of the events of the past week. Bart’s spirituality had obviously been severely challenged as well.
“A lot of people have left town,” Bart said, thankfully changing the subject. “I guess whatever guarded the pass disappeared with the weather.”
Tim nodded. He never thought of that.
“I don’t think Rapture will survive,” Bart continued. “There’ll be nobody left.”
“What about Steve?”
“He didn’t make it.”
They stood in silence for a few moments. Tim fidgeted, looked around at the saints depicted in the stained glass windows. “What are you going to do?” he asked Bart.
Bart shrugged, then winced as the movement sent a jolt of pain down his fractured arm. “I don’t know. Maybe track down my family again.”
Tim had a sudden urge to ask the man to come with him, but decided against it at the last instant. “I better be going,” he said instead.
Bart nodded. He stared down at the carpeted floor.
They stood there a moment, and finally Tim turned and walked back up the aisle.
“Hey, Tim,” Bart called as he reached the doors. Tim paused and looked over his shoulder. “Take care of yourself.”
“You too, man,” he replied with a forced smile. He walked out to the car feeling glum. What did he expect? A thank you? For what? Causing trouble and getting people killed? Fucking up his life? Destroying the town?
Tim started the car and expelled the thoughts. Whatever Bart did think, it likely was not vindictive. He had to have expected to pay the price for his freedom.
That did not make it any easier for Tim to accept.
He sped down the main strip leading out of the valley, unable to stomach the sight of the small town any longer. The last thing he saw of Rapture was somebody had destroyed the “Welcome” sign, and he was glad of it. Elation filled him as he climbed up the inner wall of the valley and sped recklessly down the other side.
He remembered making the trip into the valley nearly nine months ago, and it seemed more like nine years.
Seeing he had little more than a quarter tank of gas, he headed for the dusty gas station he stopped at before arriving in Rapture. He ran over the rubber hose laid across the pump lanes, making the bell ding inside the tiny shack at the back of the lot. The same old man with the tangled, matted beard appeared in the door and approached the car.
“Evenin’!” the old man called cheerfully as he engaged the pump and slid the nozzle into the Camaro.
“Evening,” Tim replied.
“We’ve been getting a lot of traffic through here recently. But, we should have enough gas in the tanks to get you loaded up!” He chuckled softly.
Tim let out a polite laugh and wondered if the old guy remembered him. A few minutes later the pump clicked itself off. The old man squeezed in a few last drops, then accepted Tim’s payment and a small tip. Thankfully Alexandra never took the money out of his wallet.
“Thank ye sonny!” the old man said, flashing a gap toothed smile.
Tim nodded, started the car, and shifted into gear. Suddenly the old man grasped his shoulder, the combined stenches of his breath and body and gasoline drifting into the window. “I warned ye, didn’t I, sonny?” he howled, then cackled madly.
Tim mashed the accelerator. The Camaro’s tires spun in the dust-covered concrete pump lane, caught, and carried him back to the highway. He did not slow down until he was miles away, the old man’s laughter still ringing in his ears.
* * *
Calling the place a roach motel insulted the cockroaches. The greasy, balding, potbellied, sleazeball
manager wore a stained, tattered tank-top undershirt. He asked her if she needed hourly rates. Her room’s door handle was loose, and she doubted the lock would stand up to even a half-hearted kick. The sheets looked clean but she shuddered to think of the various things that had been done in and to the bed. Stains on the wall and floor hailed from various sources. One leg of the scratched and beaten table in the corner leaned precariously on a duct-taped leg.
Before moving on to the bathroom she unwrapped her left hand. She managed to muster enough of her magic to do an adequate job of healing the buckshot wounds, and fortunately there was no muscle damage. All that remained of the three punctures were puckered pink scars. She discarded the makeshift bandage that she tore from the fringe of her nightgown and tossed it into the trash can.
She regretted her decision to not check in to a hospital, but reminded herself that if she gave birth to a satyr in a public hospital there would be no end to the media circus. And Gaia only knew what the doctors and social workers would make of it. She had been fortunate to find a credit card in the glove compartment of the car she took from Rapture, and likely could have afforded a better hotel room, but the baby was not going to wait. Her water broke scarcely half a mile up the road and she needed access to blankets and hot water for the birth.
Hot water and a dingy blanket was about all she would get in this motel. While the tile, toilet, and sink were coated with grunge and muck, the water came out clean. She quickly wiped down the bathtub with one of the bedsheets before climbing in. She left the water running as her contractions grew closer and closer together.
At long last the baby came. She did not remember there being this much pain involved in her previous childbirths. She considered using a little magic to numb herself but did not want to numb her mind in the process. The baby emerged face down, but as its head cleared her birth canal she saw a fine layer of hair slicked against the back of its head by blood and birth fluids.
Deadliest of the Species Page 32
