by Marcus Sakey
“Finn—”
Twang.
The arrow took her in the middle of her back. For a moment, her inertia made it look like she was still running.
Then it was over.
THIRTY-SEVEN
“Okay people, let’s not stand around with our respective genitalia in our hands.” Kyle’s face was a mess of blood with no wound. Brody had seen the woman’s chain tear his cheek open, the angle such that it might have cost him an eye. But his face was smooth and unblemished. Around him, the world seemed slightly out of focus.
New world, new rules.
“Celebrate later,” Kyle continued, “mourn later. Anyone with a wound that will keep you from fighting, beat it for home. Everyone who got a kill, onto the carts. The rest of you, police up your weapons and get ready to move.” He paced like a drill sergeant, his axe in hand. “Now, people!”
Claire stood staring down at the body of the Scarecrow. The blade of her hatchet had struck his forehead square and slammed home, sinking two inches of black steel into his skull. The handle stuck out obscenely. There was very little blood.
“You okay?”
She turned to him, her expression naked. “His name was Lawrence.”
Brody blew a breath. “Right.”
“His mom was bipolar. He adored his dad, who was terrific—until he walked out on them. Moved to Albuquerque and mailed Lawrence presents he never opened.”
“Yeah.”
“First time he fooled around was with his cousin. They were twelve.” A smile crossed her lips. “She went first, gave him a hand job, and when he finished they both thought maybe she’d hurt him, got so scared they quit.
“Booze. Weed. Mom’s pills. Dropped out of school. He met a girl, Niala, and for a while they were okay. But he couldn’t stop using, and she left. He overdosed in an abandoned row house, smoking crystal meth out of a lightbulb.” She sighed. “I can still taste it. Like . . . chlorine. Chlorine and fog.”
“I know what you’re feeling.” Brody thought about Raquel Adams, a woman who had hunted him, a woman he knew intimately, a woman he’d never met. “It’s impossible to know someone that way and not love them a little bit. Even though he said he was going to rape you after he killed me.”
“You know the worst thing?”
“Yes,” Brody said. “The worst thing is that you feel great.”
Her eyes widened, and she nodded slowly. “That’s right.”
“We had to do this.”
“I know.”
“It’s not just killing twelve Eaters. It’s taking that power for our side. That’s why I didn’t get in the fight.”
“I know, Will.” She planted a foot on Lawrence’s chest, gripped the hatchet with both hands, and yanked it out of his skull. “I’m okay.”
Right. Forgot who you were dealing with there for a sec.
Kyle was staring at his hands as he flexed them, a small smile on his face. He looked up as Brody approached. “Think we got their attention?”
“They’ll be here soon. Keep the wagons together. Put the people who fed under the tarps. No reason the same trick won’t work twice.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t go too fast. You want them to catch up. If you can time it on a bridge, or in a narrow street, that will even the odds some.”
“I know.”
“What we just fought wasn’t the battle. It was to bait the trap. They’re going to come hard this time.”
The man grinned. “You just said come hard.”
“Kyle—”
“Brody. Chill. We got it.” Kyle put a hand on his shoulder. “Okay?”
“Okay.” He looked back the way the Eaters had come. “DeAndre fast as he claims?”
“Kid’s a rocket. And he got a kill there, like you asked. Lucy and Claire too. I was thinking though, what if Tucks is leading the pack?”
Brody shook his head. “Sniper, remember? He’s not a lead-from-the-front kind of guy. Bet he never had a fight in his life.”
“Yeah, but now he’s the big boss.”
“Not because he inspires them. It’s dominance, not loyalty. Textbook stuff.”
“Textbook,” Kyle said. “Just to be clear, you’re betting everything on an FBI psych profile. Of the gladiator of a dark god. In the afterlife.”
“Yep.”
“Okay.” The jovial light faded from Kyle’s expression, replaced by something grimmer. “Better be right about this, Brody. We’ll buy you the time. But every second costs friends, so you better be right.”
And there it was, the central truth he’d been trying to avoid. It was a hard rule of battle that victories were not free. Look at a chessboard. Even the most elegant of wins required sacrifice.
“I know,” Brody said, and clapped his hand on the man’s arm. “Go.”
He left Kyle yelling orders, getting the wagon train rolling, a dozen men and women on either side to push it. The tarps had been replaced, the freshly fed hidden beneath them, including Finn. Leaving the archer with Kyle had been a tough call; there was the possibility that the kid could end the sniper with one good shot. But he was also the best hope of the others. He’d be able to help shape the battle, picking off Eaters as they came.
Plus, he just got at least two, maybe three kills. Not sure we want to introduce him and Simon right now.
Brody stood and watched the group move east. They were loud, the rattling carts and thumping lumber and the tromp of boots. All of them cast backward glances. They were flush with their victory, but fear lay just beneath it. He could smell it on them.
Time to make sure you’re not wasting their lives.
Lucy had sheathed her sword and stood close to Sonny, her hands on his chest, their faces inches away, talking softly. Brody had a brief moment of wonder. Where else but here could those two have come together, a samurai soccer mom and a meth-running biker whose heart, it turned out, was in the right place.
DeAndre looked anxious and overenergized, one heel tapping so fast the leg blurred. Literally blurred; he glowed with stolen energy. That was part of the plan, but Brody wondered if it had been a wise one. Like the guy hadn’t been through enough.
Too late now.
Claire was speaking to him, no doubt trying to keep him centered. It seemed to be working; as Brody approached, the kid broke into a blushing smile.
“Okay,” he said. “We don’t have time for speeches. You know what to do. It all depends on the five of us. We win, or everyone dies.” He saw the impact of his words, let them sink in. Then he forced a broad grin. “So let’s win, huh?”
THIRTY-EIGHT
They came.
Like a tsunami slamming down a riverbed, all force and fury, pushing everything before it.
A hundred Eaters, maybe more. Sprinting faster than cars. Leaping atop obstacles without slowing down. Leaning into it, calves straining, fists pumping. Long hair streaming. Weapons in hand or slung over their shoulders, dirty steel firing glints of light. They raced, elbowed, goaded one another on. Some laughed. Some howled like wolves. There must be something in the blood, some primal joy in the hunt that burst free in that sound.
Some were faster than others, though all were faster than people should be, and the column stretched to a frayed line, no order or discipline. A race toward a feeding frenzy. Brody cringed to think of the people they’d sent ahead with the wagons. They’d be slaughtered. It had been one thing to take a group by surprise, an enfilade ambush that outnumbered their enemy ten to one. But this? Even if the others could find good ground, even with—
Pack it away. You can’t afford to worry about them.
Though it took only seconds for the mob to pass, it felt much longer.
“He wasn’t there,” Claire whispered.
Brody nodded. That was what they’d expected, of course. In life, Simon Tucks had been a sniper, killing from a distance. Death had given him more power but, based on that speech last night, not made him any better with people. That he wouldn’t
be at the head of the column they’d expected. But they’d assumed he would still join the pursuit. What if they were wrong? What if he’d just loosed his fighters and stayed on his throne?
They could go to him. But it would take five, ten minutes. An awful lot of their friends could die in ten minutes.
“There.” Claire jerked her chin.
Well behind his army of savages, Simon moved at an easy walk. His face was lit with a giddy energy, as if he were about to burst into laughter. Alongside him jogged six Eaters. Brody recognized the Dancing Woman and several others from last night’s revels. They paced the sniper, but kept exchanging glances, turning wistful gazes ahead. Straining like dogs on a leash.
“Do you think DeAndre’s up to it?”
Claire nodded. “I talked to him.”
“I saw. What made him blush?”
“Told him I overheard Patricia saying how brave he was.”
“Which one’s she?”
“You know.” She cupped her breasts.
Brody smiled. “When did you overhear her?”
“Didn’t.”
“Nice.” He took a deep breath. “Can we do this?”
“Have to.”
From some distance away, a shriek rang out. Then another, and then the clang of steel on steel, yells and shouts.
It’s started. Brody’s stomach pitched. People dying, he knew. Friends and enemies alike. He wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to feeling people leaving the world.
On the street below, the honor guard bristled, clearly eager to get in on the fun. But the sniper kept his pace.
“He’s not going.”
“He will.”
Brody grit his teeth. The haft of the hammer was sticky in his grip. They’d presumed the sniper wouldn’t be alone. That would have been too much to hope for. But for the plan to work, DeAndre had to do his thing. Brody wondered if the man had been pushed too far. A teenager murdered by cops and now following the plan of other cops.
If he doesn’t do his part, you’ll have to attack anyway.
Bad notion. They’d be outnumbered, and presumably the honor guard had been chosen for their strength. Not to mention Simon himself. Still. No choice.
He was starting to rise when Claire said, “Look.”
Three stories below, DeAndre stepped calmly out of a van, giving every impression of having dodged a bullet. Staring after the Eaters that had passed, and wiping his hands on his pants. Brody could make out the cat-with-canary grin on his face.
Then DeAndre looked west toward the sniper and his companions and did a visible double take. His lips framed an oh shit. He spun and took off at a dead run. One minute standing still, the other a streak. Like the rabbit at a greyhound track.
With the same result. The Eaters around the sniper may have been an honor guard, but soldiers they were not. The sight of running prey was more than they could handle. Three of them took off immediately; the other three hesitated, torn between fear of their new prophet and hunger.
With a tolerant smile, Simon Tucks waved them on. They streaked away, leaving the sniper alone, and laughing.
God bless you, D. May you and Patricia have much sex.
He turned to Claire, saw she had her hatchet in hand. It had only been a few minutes since she’d killed the Scarecrow, and the evident flush of power brought her into hyper-focus. He could see the pale freckles on the hollow of her throat, the wisps of hair on her neck, the delicate crinkles at the corners of her eyes. She wasn’t a classic bombshell, all pouting lips and big chest, meant to be captured in still frame. To appreciate Claire, you had to see her in motion. The clean posture, shoulders thrown back, the air of confidence. The fear she acknowledged and locked down.
He wondered what it would have been like to be together the normal way. To have jobs and a home and dinner together. To plan vacations and set alarm clocks and talk about books and bicker about things neither really cared about. He wondered if she wanted to be a mother, and thought that if she had, he would have liked that. Not yet, but in a couple of years.
“What?” She’d caught the intensity of his expression and mistaken it for something related to their plan. “What is it?”
Everything. All the things. “Just—I love you.”
She flashed a smile. “Sweet boy. Move.”
Below, the sniper had slowed to a walk. He was laughing to himself, a high-pitched giggle. Dying didn’t cure his crazy.
Brody rose, stepped back, and ran for the edge of the roof.
There was a moment of purest panic, instinctive, intractable. Even as he planted a foot and pushed himself into the air, some part of him was wondering what the hell he was doing leaping off a five-story building.
Then gravity had him, legs whirling, arms pumping, the air rushing past, the ground hurtling up.
He landed hard, flexing his knees and letting momentum carry him into a roll, the hammer tucked in against his chest, his other hand scraping concrete, catching himself, then popping upward in front of the man who had killed him.
Simon Tucks looked harder, leaner, than the man on the fire escape a lifetime ago. The sagging face had been replaced by sharp cheekbones and burning eyes. He wore the same black clothes as the previous night. What looked like dried bones were slung on a leather cord around his neck.
Beside Brody, there was the sound of impact, Claire landing better than he had, her power fresh enough that she took it all in her knees without a roll. Then, behind Tucks, two more streaks fell from the sky. Lucy’s katana rasped from the sheath. Sonny drew both his knives.
If the sniper was frightened, he hid it well. His gaze was cold and imperious, taking them each in and dismissing them. “A trick?”
“A trap,” Brody replied. “Which you walked right into.”
Simon smiled. “Do you have any idea who I am? Who I really am?” He fingered the necklace. “I am the gladiator of a dark—”
With a squishing sound, a curved metal tongue punched through his belly. A foot and a half of steel filmed with blood. The edge of the sword gleamed.
“Sorry,” Lucy said, “heard that speech already.”
Simon’s smile didn’t waver.
He grasped the blade in both hands and snapped it like a chopstick. Then he spun, lashing out with a backhand that caught Lucy full across the face, lifting her off her feet and sending her flying into the same van DeAndre had hidden in. The impact crumbled the steel and shattered glass. Her head cracked the mirror stem, and her body slumped slowly to the street.
Sonny’s eyes flashed, and he leapt in slashing, weaving a tapestry of razor edges. The sniper juked and dodged. If Lucy’s blow had wounded him, he wasn’t showing it. Simon moved so quickly that Brody felt he was watching bad stop-motion animation, key frames flashing with nothing between them.
Brody joined the fight, trying to get behind the sniper, but the man kept moving, circling, pulling back, forcing them both to the front. Claire stood with her hatchet cocked, her eyes unblinking, waiting for a clear throw.
The biker was good, held both knives underhand and made controlled swings, feints and jabs, nothing that overbalanced him. Back and back he drove Simon, whose own hands stayed low, that was odd, why was he doing—
“Look out!”
Brody knew he was too late even as the biker lunged forward with a wicked swipe that opened clothing and flesh and muscle to the bare white of ribs. In the same moment, Simon twirled up the length of Lucy’s broken sword he’d been keeping flat against his forearm, gripped the bare blade with bleeding hands, and drove the point into the underside of the biker’s chin, fast and hard enough that the tip spiked through the top of his skull.
Sonny twitched, shivered, and fell. Even before he hit the ground, Brody felt the aching vertiginous tug of departure unspooling his belly.
Fear and frustration poleaxed Brody. How was Tucks doing this? He’d been stabbed through the stomach, had his chest opened wide, his hands split from gripping the bare edge of a razor-s
harp sword.
And none of it is even slowing him down. You’re not hurting him.
Try harder.
If he could get Tucks on the ground, the fight would be over. He could control the pace, rain down hammer blows, open him up to Claire. Brody charged, his shoulder down, bulling into the man.
It was like running full speed into a tree. The pain was explosive and unsubtle, his shoulder joint flirting with popping out of the socket. Brody gasped, spun, whirled the hammer in a brutal killing arc, twenty pounds of cold-forged steel backed by muscles that could do impossible things, a blow that would crack an engine block—
Until Simon Tucks caught it, barehanded, midair. Though his hands were coated in blood, the fingers were unscathed, and the wounds in his chest and belly had vanished. Of course. He killed Sonny. He was close enough that Brody could smell him, the reek of smoke and something else, a meaty scent like raw hamburger. Without letting go of the hammer, Tucks leaned in. “You cannot fight god.”
His head lashed out, the center of his forehead connecting with Brody’s nose. A sickening crack and an explosion of white light and the world blinked in and out as his balance went wobbly. Somewhere behind him Claire, yelling. Yelling for him to get down.
Roger that.
Brody went limp, dropped hard, the motion unintuitive in a fight, and enough to throw the sniper off balance. As he did, he heard the whir of Claire’s hatchet, could imagine it spinning through the air. He looked up in time to see it slam into the base of the sniper’s neck, just above the collarbone, the head buried deep.
An incredible throw, backed by superhuman force. It would have mangled the trapezius and scalene muscles and torn into the jugular. Death in seconds.
Simon Tucks paused. With a bemused expression, he reached up and plucked the hatchet from his neck. Flipped it end over end, caught it by the handle.
Then his arm snapped out, hurling the weapon hard enough that the blow caved in Claire’s skull.
Brody screamed.
He was on his feet even as he felt the world shifting, rocking like a rowboat someone had just stepped out of. But the rowboat was all that was left of life and the someone stepping out was Claire and that just couldn’t be, it simply could not fucking be.
