This is the Jo-Bran’s cue.
Through my squinted eyes, I see his silhouette drop the paw, the claw. The woman’s scream changes from a long shrill cry to nothing. She’s still trying to scream, but can’t, her mouth full of blood that spills and hits the large sculpture, grows cold, freezes.
Still bathed in the unholy light, the Jo-Bran holds something up, his paw covered and dripping with the woman’s blood. In his fist is her stomach, her kidney, her heart. And the Jo-Bran cheer.
I turn away to find the source of the light but see only brilliance. A bright white that looks and feels so far away that it doesn’t seem real, only a memory of the past. That nothing good or beautiful has existed or ever will exist in this world. The last shreds of the sun disappear and the world goes back to its black and white existence. The night sky. The pale snow. Trapped between an inverted heaven and hell.
Another, cream-colored Jo-Bran takes the woman’s corpse and slings it over its shoulder, the woman’s innards dragging to the snow and trailing after them. The four Banjankri that held her in place fall back into the larger group. As they melt into the rest of us, another group of six makes there way to the altar. This time it is a man that fights their grip. The captive’s mouth is shut and he doesn’t make a sound, just struggles against his captors. The man knows it’s worthless but can’t stop fighting.
Four of them stretch him out. A fifth stands to the side. The Jo-Bran’s paw raises. His claw extends. Plunges. Screams. Another smatter of insides. The scene repeats.
Again and again and again.
And I finally understand what we’re here for. Some of the Banjankri mill about the rest of the crowd, stopping at those with prisoners, speaking with them, their shark teeth clicking and glinting in the moonlight. They’re bartering. Hands are shaken and prisoners are led away from their original places, taken, kicking and screaming, to become the next in line, the next to be sacrificed. We’re the initiation payment for the new Banjankri.
With each death, it comes that much closer to my own. Goatee has spoken to a few of the other searchers, those looking for a prisoner to sacrifice for their newcomers, but he always shakes his head in the end, holding out for a better deal or to just kill us himself. Part of me wishes that I wouldn’t have to keep waiting, keep worrying. And the other part cringes every time a new group of Banjankri navigates the crowd, searching for their own sacrifices to baptize their newcomers into the family.
The other Jo-Bran still watch, noting each newcomer, perhaps memorizing their faces to be noted as friends. Most of them have a hunk from one of the sacrifices in their grip, a leg or an arm, part of a torso, some lump of bone and flesh to gnaw while watching, their popcorn. I wonder how I’ll be divvied up, given like a treat at Halloween. But I’m not allowed to dwell on this for too long. I see a searching Banjankri zero in on Meredith and me, then point, one long mitted arm in our direction, right at Meredith.
The group of Banjankri approach Goatee, switching their gaze from him to me to Meredith, a greedy look on each of their faces. One of them, wearing darker furs, his face is covered by his hood. And I know that these are the ones. We’ll be sold. Then sacrificed. Another number in a never-ending line.
Chapter Thirteen
After a few minutes of gestures and hisses in one another’s ears, Goatee and the leader of the new group strike a deal. Goatee nods and both Pug Nose and Unibrow untie the ropes from themselves and hand them over to the already open hands.
Meredith’s eyes are still focused on the altar, unaware of what’s going on around her, too focused on the scene. Maybe she sees her own eminent death. Or perhaps she’s just trying to keep her mind on someone else’s pain to avoid her own. She doesn’t even look away as the Banjankri tug and start to drag us back to their group. I don’t even know what we were traded for, some shotgun shells? Furs? Who knew? It didn’t matter anyway. We were about to die, the price of which would probably only worsen the situation. I’ve often wondered about the cost of life, what someone might pay for me, but now that it has happened, it’s the last thing that I want to think about.
“I’m sorry,” I say, looking to Meredith. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. That things went so wrong.”
She stays focused on the sacrifice.
“I wish I could’ve done more. Kept you from harm. Kept all of us from it.”
Her face remains frozen, echoing the surroundings. I think I see a flicker in her eye, but I probably just imagined it, wanting to see something change within in her, to know that my apology got through and that she accepted. She’s always been, and always will be, an enigma. She’ll die a puzzle, and I’ll just die, wondering what she’s thinking.
The latest sacrifice is being dragged away and our new captors tug us forward. I want to retch. I want to fight. But I do neither. I stumble forward, casting glances about the area, thinking that I’d never have been able to even imagine such a place as this, let alone picture it as my death bed.
Up close, I can see the imperfections of the altar. All the spots where the warm blood and flesh have mangled what might have been beautiful. In other places, the blood has built up like stalagmites, built from the floor up, layer upon layer of frozen blood until the trickles and streams resemble candle wax. I have an urge to reach out and break off a chunk of ice, but I suppress the urge.
Meredith is equally stoic. We’re the best-behaved captives of the lot, going to our death with what looks like courage and integrity, when it’s really just impassivity. I’m ready to go. Fine, let this frozen pedestal of death be my resting place. I’m ready.
Or so I think.
The second they start pulling me towards the altar, I’m wishing that it isn’t me. I want a few more seconds to live. My mind races for any sign or place of escape, but all I can think about is the relatively undamaged house that resembled my home. The only way to escape is inside myself. I try to leave, to re-shutdown my system and forget the world and everything in it, build my own out of the memories of grass and flowing water and warmth. It’s then that I notice who the initiation is for. Whom I am a sacrifice for.
Charles.
He stands to the side of the Jo-Bran, wearing different, darker furs. He’s hardly recognizable in the new gear, since I’d grown so used to him wearing the same things day in and day out. One of the Banjankri claps him on the shoulder and whispers something in English to him, though I can’t make out the words amongst the clatters and cheers. The others in the group heft Meredith onto the altar and ready themselves for the slaughter.
As they pull my arms out, I scream to Charles, “What are you doing?”
As they stretch out my legs, I scream, “Tell them to let us go.”
The Jo-Bran steps forward, and Charles’ face tilts into the moonlight. I expect to see a look of horror on his face. I expect his mouth to be opening, unable to speak from the shock. I expect his arms to shoot out and stay the Banjankri. Instead, he simpers, a sneer that reminds me of every time he lashed out at me, at Angelo, the pack, our ways, everything we’d done.
My blood boils. He wanted us.
It was he that fingered us amongst the other prisoners. And I use my final moments to pray an untimely death for him as the Jo-Bran’s paw descends.
Everything goes slow-motion, and I hardly see the sequence of events. There is a burst of blue-green light that flares up from Meredith, her eyes burning, glowing like the Jo-Bran’s but brighter, radiating light. Her captors rear back like frightened horses. The Banjankri she’s tied to drops and drags as she moves, too fast to follow. She bolts to Charles, reaching for his boots. His knife. And there it is, gleaming in the moonlight, her eyelight. Like cloth in air, hair in water, she flows, ducking under the Jo-Bran as his paw descends, ready to plunge into my chest in a gory spray. She buries the knife in its stomach, all the way to the hilt, even her fingers disappear inside. Then she tears, gashing across its bulging stomach, spilling its insides in a steaming pile. The Jo-Bran screams. And Meredith slid
es from Banjankri to Banjankri, slitting throats, stabbing chests, necks, eyes.
The blood flows, but it is not mine. Only Charles is left standing, the rest of the Banjankri, including the Jo-Bran, have all tumbled in their own pools of blood. Meredith works at her ropes, then cuts mine.
By now, the crowd’s cheers have turned to screams of anger and disbelief. They are so dumbstruck that not a one of them moves, gaping at what has just happened. It’s the Jo-Bran that act first. They drop their snacks, the bloody hunks thudding against the ground as the creatures break into a roar. And I know that they will be descending any moment to come after us.
With our bindings cut and a lack of guards, my brain fires into action, weighing out the best route, the best direction to run. My eyes fall on Charles, and all the anger and hostility bubbles to the surface, the surprise and shock of Meredith’s actions wearing off. I know we need to move, to get out of here, but not yet.
The whole area is filled with screams and growls, the sounds echoing and bouncing until there is so much noise, I can almost reach out and grab the individual tones. Some of the Jo-Bran have descended and rip through the crowd, rampaging their way to us without regard to anyone or anything around them.
I scrape along the altar and break one of the frozen streams of blood loose. It feels heavy in my hand, but it doesn’t stay there for long. With a quick glance, I see that it’s exactly how I want it, pointed, jagged, solid. The carnage builds around me: the cries of the Banjankri, the howls of the Jo-Bran, the blood spatters and rending flesh. I step up to Charles, his face falling, mouth drooping, the color fading. I grab the back of his head. He tries to squirm, and I hear a muffled cry come from lips. I fill them with the bloodspike, driving it up and into and through his mouth. His eyes light up as I press harder and harder until the spike pops through the back of his skull. His shattered aria is muffled by the spike, now protruding from both sides of his head.
Meredith takes my hand, and we run.
All around us, the Banjankri and Jo-Bran fight. Limbs fly; explosions of blood paint the snow, the walls, the monsters; death descends. We weave through them, Meredith dragging me along with a superhuman speed. Her hand shoots out, slicing through oncoming enemies, spilling their blood and making them erupt in agony. We hop over bodies, dodge gunfire, run.
My lungs and legs cry for me to stop. I don’t have the energy for this, but the adrenaline keeps me going. I spot a darker alleyway, one that doesn’t look to be inhabited by anything other than the night itself. I break from Meredith’s grip and head for the cover. Her feet skid on the snow as she changes direction and catches up with me, both of us running full-out.
We duck into the shadows and keep running until we reach the end of the tunnel. I collapse into the wall and try to catch my breath, the things I’ve just seen, pile them all into some semblance of a picture, something that makes sense. I can still hear the wails coming from the fight: Banjankri hisses mixed with English curses and Jo-Bran snarls. The Jo-Bran must blame the Banjankri for bringing Meredith to the city and killing their leader—it’s the only reason I can think that would bring them into a full on war. It’s what they deserve. Serving monsters for protection or survival never works. Truces are always too shaky between bad and evil. They should’ve seen this coming, the end of their world. We should’ve all seen it coming.
I scoop a handful of snow and stuff it into my mouth. I didn’t realize how thirsty I was until the cold flakes melt and slide down my throat. It’s so soothing that I take another handful. Meredith’s eyes still glow, shifting around, on the lookout. She’s uneasy being trapped in this small space.
“Who are you?” I say.
Those flashlight eyes turn to me, enveloping me with their eerie glow. I think she might actually say something. I can’t see her mouth for the brightness of her eyes, but I think it opens. Instead of speaking though, she presses up against me, covering my mouth.
I almost choke on the melted snow and cough. Her eyes widen, and I can read in them a simple command: Shut up.
At the alley’s entrance, there is a group of Jo-Bran, standing at the mouth, filling the entire width from crumbled building to crumbled building. Their heads are tilted forward and slightly upward, and I can hear their great snuffles. A black one steps into the alley, scraping his claws along the side of the building, sounding like nails on a blackboard but more violent, more like the screech of someone slitting open their own stomach without anesthesia.
The Jo-Bran comes further and further in, the others trailing after him. Meredith’s hand presses tighter over my mouth, the blood from her fingers dripping down the sides of my face. I can feel a cough coming on. I try to hold it back, to swallow it down, but I make the slightest choke. Even amongst the death rattles and barks, the Jo-Bran still hear it. The slight sound jolting every one of their heads to the back of the cave. They spread out, fill the gap and come closer, a line of searchers scouring for a lost child in the forest. The shrieking wall continues as the black Jo-Bran keeps his claws dragging across the wall, tiny sparks jumping from the claw-tips.
Meredith leans closer to me, her face passing mine, pushing back my hood, tickling my ears with her lips. “Run.”
It’s so faint that I wonder if I’ve actually heard anything at all.
But she rips away and rushes into the Jo-Bran’s midst, her eyes trailing faint ribbons of aqua light. The Jo-Bran roar, and I see them crash into each other. I scoot along the wall, my arms outstretched, searching for an opening. I almost fall into a larger patch of decay that opens into the decrepit building. I take one last look Meredith’s way, see the Jo-Bran’s blood spray against the wall, the rest of them crumbling onto her. I duck into the hole and heed her advice, running for everything I ever was or will be.
Chapter Fourteen
I stumble through the building as best I can, avoiding the rubble and forgotten furniture. I want to just stop and hide in one of the corners, curl up and wait for everything to blow over. But I know it won’t. The Jo-Bran will come.
I press myself along, not stopping to listen or rest, just running. On the other side of the building, I find a broken window and jump through into another alley. I step to the other side and search for another gap in the wall. It takes me a few minutes to find another one, my heart beating twice for every second that passes. At the mouth of the alley, a few Banjankri run by, a group of Jo-Bran quickly follow. There is no sign of Meredith. She sacrificed herself for me, something I wouldn’t have done, would never have thought of doing. I loved my family. Not my pack, I wouldn’t die for them.
Through more debris and long-lost homes, I travel, keeping to the darkest of corners, staying as silent as I can. Soon they run out though, and I’m caught with nowhere to go. All around me are leveled buildings, broken stone heaps that serve as insults to what we once had and were. My breath comes sharp, in fast pants. I consider turning back and finding a place to hide, but how can I hide amongst monsters? Too many open places. Not enough shelter. No home.
Then my eyes find an echo. The building, still intact, waiting for me.
I have to cross the street to make it inside. I don’t stop to think about it; I just run, mindless of my surroundings, whoever, whatever sees me. I run. I hear more gunshots, shrieks. Smears of blood cut the ground, limbs, rocks, chunks of ice. It all blurs underfoot as I run, focusing on the door. My door.
I fly up the steps, praying it’s open. It isn’t. I have to force it, the sound of my shoulder hitting the door resounding throughout the city, sounding so loud that I’m afraid everyone will be after me. After another few hits, it cracks open and I slide inside, slamming the door behind me. I lock both bolts, knowing they mean nothing, and I wait. Listen. Wait. Distant cries. Wait. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Nothing.
My hands close. My arms fall. My muscles relax. My heart slows by a few beats. For the moment, I’m safe, maybe even long enough for the sun to rise. It shouldn’t be long now. The Jo-Bran will be forced
to hide in the darkness, and the Banjankri will be too occupied with collecting whatever scraps of themselves that remain to notice me. I turn around, and my breath is knocked from me.
The place is just as I imagined it, a carbon copy of my own home. It’s as if I’ve stepped back in time and into the future at the same time. Like I’m looking at what our house would’ve been, what it probably has become, if I’d remained. The design is the same, the stairs, the foyer, the living room.
I tip-toe through the place, wary of disturbing the smallest spec of dust. There is something holy about visiting your past and your future. I don’t want to wake the dead; they’ve haunted me enough. So I creep through the place, imagining everything as it was, the couch, the television, my wife in the kitchen, waiting for me to start supper, helping me cut the carrots, my daughter at the table, finishing up her homework. The visions won’t clear, even when I shake my head, try and focus on the splinters of a table, the scattered pantry full of frozen mice and a few cans of food.
But I’ve been too loud.
I’ve woken them.
They whisper to me.
My wife’s voice fills my ears, telling me to go upstairs, to come to bed, sleep. My daughter says she needs help with an algebra problem, and I mumble something about it never being something I understood. I follow their voices. They lead me upstairs into the rooms in the same places, the same set up, where I don’t want to go or be. Their voices pull me into the master bedroom and I expect to find them there, beautiful and whole.
“You.”
This voice cuts through my vision like a Jo-Bran’s claw. My wife and daughter dissipate into the air, broken into thousands of pieces and scatter across the room. It takes me a moment to clear my skull of them completely, put them to rest and allow myself to see who’s speaking. My vision comes to, and I see the figure standing in the middle of the master bedroom
It’s Goatee.
Dawn of the Yeti Page 5
