The Fifth Day

by Gordon Bonnet

  She picked up the dagger, tested the blade, and gave an annoyed humph. She stroked it along a whetstone that lay next to it, still mumbling to herself and every once in a while giving Ben another glance filled with malice and cunning.

  Just like in Hansel and Gretel. How had they gotten away from the witch? A woodcutter saved them, or something. Or was that Little Red Riding Hood?

  The withered crone tested the edge again, and swick, swick, swick went the knife on the whetstone. It was becoming hot in the room. The crackling of the logs was loud in the oven as they caught.

  Of course. She was heating up her oven. She was going to cook him.

  She set down the knife, then turned away from him to open the door of the stove again. She tossed another chunk of wood in, giving a little “Oh!” of satisfaction when it burst into flame. She turned back to Ben, giving him a sly smile, and then motioned to him with one hand.

  “No fucking way.” Hearing himself say the f-word made a desperate laugh bubble up in him. He raised his voice. “No fucking way, lady.” He took a step back, away from her, although where he could run to wasn’t clear.

  She frowned, and tipped her head to the side as if she weren’t sure what he meant. She said something unintelligible, in a croaking voice, and rubbed her hands together, miming a shiver, then motioned toward the oven again.

  “Yeah. I’ll bet it’s nice and warm in there. How stupid do you think I am?”

  The corners of her mouth turned down. She picked up the knife and gestured toward him, burbling more words that sounded like gibberish. She took two steps toward him, reaching out a clawlike hand to grab his arm.

  Ben ducked, dropped to the floor, and crawled between her legs. She gave an exclamation of dismay, and swiveled around faster than her bulk would have suggested. She came toward him, mouth wide open to reveal toothless gums and a bright red, lolling tongue, and he backed up until his hand touched something rough and scaly.

  It was the old hag’s walking stick, the one that ended in a chicken’s foot. He grabbed it, holding the splay-toed end toward her, and then lunged forward, planting it in the middle of the woman’s ample belly. He was probably half her weight, but desperation gave him strength. With a huge shove and a cry, he pushed her backwards. She stepped back, an expression of surprise on her ugly face, then caught her heel on a crack in the floor, and toppled over.

  Her head landed inside the open door of the oven and her checkered scarf burst into flame. She shrieked, clapping her hands to the burning fabric, trying vainly to put out the fire. Then, with another high, wild scream, she turned into a bird, its feathers scorched and blackened and spouting flame, and launched herself upwards. Her dirty linen dress crumpled to the floor. The impact knocked a hole in the roof, and the bird flew up into the sky, to sputter like a firework and crash in ruin somewhere nearby.

  Panting, Ben ran to the door. Still locked. Where had she put the key? He dashed over to her fallen dress, felt around in the pockets, and then tore back to the door. The key turned, and he flung the door open.

  It was fortunate he had fast reflexes. He caught at the door as he teetered on the edge, only saving himself at the last moment from a fall of about twenty feet, and ended dangling from the doorknob with the door flat against the outside wall, looking between his feet at a smooth expanse of lawn underneath him.

  The house he was in stood on pillars shaped like chicken’s legs, with no means to climb down.

  Of course. She could turn into a bird. She didn’t need a ladder.

  He jiggled his weight back and forth, trying to get the door to swing back close enough to allow him to sling himself back to safety, but the door barely moved. He looked down again. He’d probably survive a fall from this height as long as he didn’t land on his head, but what was the likelihood he’d break his leg? Maybe both? Even with Gareth there, what could they do for a broken leg?

  Ben didn’t want Gareth anywhere near him if he was injured, even if he was a doctor. Gareth was hiding something, something big. Ben decided he’d rather be stuck with a broken leg than having him set it. Lissa didn’t act like she’d believed Ben when he said he wasn’t sure about Gareth, but he wasn’t. Not at all.

  Then a chilling thought slipped through his mind. Should he trust any of them? None of them were who they said they were. None of them were who they thought they were. Everything was changing, inside and out.

  And so was he.

  But that was too terrifying to contemplate. He pushed the thought aside, and winced. His hands were tiring already, and were becoming slick with sweat. It was only a matter of time before he fell.

  “Help! If anyone can hear me, I need help!”

  Across a chain-link fence, indistinct in the dim light, a movement caught his eye. It looked bigger than a human, but he couldn’t see anything more about it at first.

  Great. Now he’d alerted one of the monsters. He was going to be eaten. He wondered which one it would be. Should he let go and let it attack him while he was lying on the ground with two broken legs, or hang there as long as he could and hope it couldn’t reach?

  The figure came nearer, and he saw that the hope of being high enough to be safe—at least as long as he could hold on—was dashed. Whatever it was looked huge. It came up to the fence, and stepped over it as if it weren’t there. A little closer, and Ben recognized it.

  It was the spindly-legged green-eyed thing that had come out of the tree, grabbed Gary Suarez by the wrist, and lifted him like he weighed nothing at all. It strode toward him, and there was a flash of emerald as the brightening light caught its glossy eyes. The rest of it was gray-brown, indistinct, rough as tree bark. Ben thought of the Ents from The Lord of the Rings, and hoped that this thing—like Treebeard—would turn out to be friendly.

  It came up to the old woman’s hut and looked up at Ben hanging from his handhold. In its eyes was nothing but mild puzzlement. It didn’t reach for him, nor show any sign it meant him harm. Far from the glittering evil in Baba Yaga’s eyes, this thing’s expression showed nothing worse than curiosity.

  “Help!” It showed no sign that it understood him, but tipped its head to the side. “I’m stuck up here. Could you help me get down?” He looked at its bone-thin arms and long, knob-jointed fingers. “And don’t hurt me. Please.”

  There was a suspended moment during which the two locked gazes, boy and Tree Creature, and then it reached up and put its hands around his waist. It gave a remarkably gentle pull, and Ben let go of the doorknob.

  He had a moment’s desperate thought that maybe he should have held on, fought back, as it brought him level with its face. But that wouldn’t have been possible in any case. It could have pulled him off the door with ease even if he’d resisted.

  The deep, bottle-green eyes stared at Ben’s, and craggy brows drew together. Then it bent over and set him down on the ground. Around him, in the light of dawn, was a field marked with stripes, and nearby a metal frame with a net, and he knew where he was.

  The old woman’s hut stood in the high school soccer field.

  “Thank you.”

  There was a rumble, and the ground shook. Ben had been through earthquakes before, none severe, and after the first jolt of fear he had the reassuring thought he always had after a tremor. Not a very big one. We lucked out. But the Tree Creature’s eyes became alert, and it looked off to the west.

  Then it regarded Ben again with a frown, and pointed off toward the center of town.

  “What? What do you want me to do?”

  Another rumble. The Tree Creature’s expression and its gestures became more urgent. It pointed, then reached down, pushed him gently, and pointed again. Then it opened its mouth, and said in a deep, croaking voice, “Go home.”

  “What’s happening back home?”

  The Tree Creature put a gnarled hand in the middle of Ben’s back, and shoved. Ben stumbled and almost fell, but kept his feet.

  “Tell me! What’s happening back home?”

&nbs
p; “The Flaming One. He is demanding a sacrifice. You know the tale, and how it must end.”

  Ben caught his breath. “Surt.”

  The Tree Creature inclined its head.

  “Which of us is going to be Frey? Who’s going to be the sacrifice to save the rest?”

  But the Tree Creature had said all it was going to. It took one craggy palm and gave Ben a breath-chasing slap between the shoulder blades, and before he knew what was happening, he was running as fast as he could.

  He had to be the sacrifice. He was the only one who knew what to do.

  Maybe it was too late. The sacrifice might already be given. Lissa or Z or Jeff. Or all of them. Maybe he really was alone now.

  But he couldn’t let himself even consider that possibility.

  He ran to the gate in the fence, past a crumpled pile of burned feathers topped by a scorched piece of red-checkered cloth, trying not to look at it and mostly succeeding.

  He slowed as he reached the driveway toward the road. He was only a mile from home. With luck, he wouldn’t meet anyone or anything on the way there. He’d be quiet and stealthy, so that he wouldn’t alert what pairs of hostile eyes happened to be watching….

  As he turned his face toward home, another light competed with the sunrise, a ruinous and hellish glare that made the little fire in Baba Yaga’s oven seem like a harmless candle flame by comparison.

  This was it. Everything up to now had been play-acting, let’s pretend, a game in a fairy story where those who deserve it win and the good guys live happily ever after. This was the real thing, more real than Grendel or the feu follet or the Loup Garou or Baba Yaga, or any of the other things out there. If he didn’t get home quickly, it’d all be over, and he really would be the only one left.

  Once more, he broke into a desperate sprint.

  10

  THE TRAVELERS ALL reacted differently. Some refused to believe, thinking it was a cheat. One man would have turned back into the forest had the others let him. Some said, It’s all in our minds. Heaven is not a real destination. You are in heaven when you stop fighting against what must be.

  Some wept openly, urging the others to make haste, fearful that the light would cease, that if they did not find the end of the path quickly, it would be taken from them.

  But eventually all of them could see ahead a gate, solid and real, with an archway made of stone. It was the twin of the one that they had passed through, how long ago? None could say. It was the stuff of legends. But the legend was made real, and it was found that a woman of their group had the bronze key, tarnished with age, in her pocket, although she knew not how it had gotten there.

  She drew it out and put it into the keyhole. It turned with hardly a sound, and the gate swung open.

  —

  AN EARSPLITTING BOOM shook the walls. One of the front windows broke, the safety glass crackling into a thousand crystalline shards, faceted like a fly’s eye, before collapsing inwards. Sounds of ruin came from other rooms as shelves collapsed, china and picture frames and potted plants fell to the floor and shattered. The house shuddered again, and one of the bookcases tipped over, spilling magazines and the stack of physics books Ben had taken from the library all over the living room floor.

  “Earthquake?” Lissa said, her voice breathless.

  “I don’t think so. Look.” Gareth pointed toward the front lawn. The curtains were lit from outside with an infernal glow, cherry-red like the inside of a furnace.

  “Did a gas line break?” Z was on her feet, her heart pounding, as one of the eucalyptus trees went up like a torch.

  Jeff came flying down the stairs, clutching his Bible under one arm, his face the color of whey. “This is it! The Evil One! He’s come up from hell. I told you!” He ran to the door and threw it open. A roaring breath of hot wind blew into the house, carrying with it the stench of sulfur.

  She grabbed his arm, and pulled him around. Their faces were inches apart, and the Holy Man’s eyes glowed with reflected firelight. His expression was one of transport, almost joy. It was the look of a man who may be about to die, but knows exactly what he has to do.

  “What the hell are you doing?” She shook him, hard. “Don’t go out there!”

  “I’m the only one who knows what to do.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw it. I saw it from the upstairs window. It broke up through the street, straight from the pits of hell. It’s coming for us. I’m the only one here who is sanctified. I can stop it.”

  There was another explosion of crashes. Z looked past Jeff, and a plume of searing orange fire, almost too bright to look at, slashed into a house across the street. The roof caved in with a volcano of sparks and a noise like death.

  Jeff pulled free of her, and ran down the stairs.

  “Jeff! Stop. Stop!” Z shouted, but either he didn’t hear her, or ignored her completely.

  A roar and another thudding rumble, and something heaved itself into view that made Z take a step back, her heart slamming against her ribcage.

  “Holy shit. Jeff was right.”

  A huge, slouching figure, taller than a house, stood near an enormous hole in the street from which fire belched, giving forth hot vapors. The creature itself burned. Flames ran up and down its thickly-muscled arms and bare torso, streamers of sparks cascading from its black hair. In its hand it held a red-hot sword, almost too bright to look at. It was a living torch, burning but not consumed, and where its enormous bare feet pressed against the street the asphalt melted, pools of steaming tar running from the gouges it left behind.

  Its heavy head swung back and forth, dark eyes gazing out from underneath bristling brows. With a lazy backhand it brought up the sword, knocked down a telephone pole, setting it immediately alight.

  It turned its burning eyes toward Jeff, approaching with his Bible held before him like a shield, then looked toward Zolzaya, standing on the front porch watching, paralyzed by fear. It took one step toward them, swung the sword again, knocking the roof from the Acostas’ house. Plywood and joists and shingles exploded into the air, some already aflame.

  A chunk of siding flipped end over end and struck Jeff in the chest, knocking him to the ground. The giant stepped over him, raising its sword for another blow, this one at Z and the porch she stood on.

  She watched the flickering blade come down, felt its searing heat approaching. Then hands jerked her back into the cool dimness of the living room, slammed the door just as the sword sheared off the porch and front steps. The front wall of the house burst into an orange cascade of fire.

  “What the hell were you doing?” Lissa shouted into her face. “Come on!”

  “Jeff….” Z said, her voice thin in her own ears. “Jeff….”

  “You can’t help him now. Come on!”

  Gareth and Margo were already running through the kitchen and out the back door into the yard. The hedge between the Ingersolls’ yard and the Acostas’ burned like a torch. The back fence was too smooth and tall to climb. No escape that way. They skirted the edge of the swimming pool, running toward the next house down, hoping to find refuge.

  The water in the pool fountained upwards. Margo, in front, saw it first, but Lissa was the only one who had seen it before. The clear pool water spun, whirling like a waterspout. It made a hungry, sucking noise, and Z looked into it and saw at the bottom what Lissa had seen in the creek—teeth. Hundreds of razor-sharp teeth. Tendrils of sparkling liquid spewed from the middle, its writhing arms blocking their only path away from the burning giant.

  Charybdis.

  Caught between fire and water.

  “Okay, this is not fair!” Z shouted. “Can’t you goddamn monsters find someone else to harass?”

  There was a horrific crash from behind them as another house went up in flames.

  The flailing tentacles slid closer. One lunged for Z and she dodged away, feeling the wind of its passing only inches from her midsection.

  And then Margo, eyes wid
e, walked toward it.

  Z screamed, “What the fuck are you doing?”

  The older woman didn’t slow, didn’t even seem to have heard. The thing’s funnel-like mouth roared spray into her face, and the rippling tentacles encircled her. Z averted her face, certain she was about to see her friend torn to shreds by the gnashing, razor-sharp teeth. But then Margo reached out with both hands, and grabbed the pool creature’s open mouth.

  Its shrieks doubled, a whistling screech almost beyond the range of human hearing. Margo held on, seemingly without effort, and her face was calm.

  Z realized, the breath catching in her throat, that she had seen this image before. It was Strength. Margo was Strength, closing the lion’s mouth with only a gentle push.

  Margo’s hands came together, forcing its yawning maw shut. There was an explosion of spray, and it collapsed back into the water it was made from.

  The creature was gone.

  Z was at Margo’s side in a moment. “How—How the hell did you know how to do that?”

  Margo looked up at her with a dazed expression. “I don’t know. It just came to me. I knew what I had to do, that’s all. I don’t know how.”

  Another sword blow knocked most of the Ingersolls’ house into the back yard. Flaming debris hit the water in the swimming pool.

  What were they all becoming? The world was collapsing around them, and each of them was changing into something straight out of a folk tale.

  “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  They edged their way forward, coughing in the smoke and flames that played over the burning hedge. The giant was still there, standing astride the street. The entire row of houses on the other side was engulfed in fire, including the house where Grendel had attacked them. If the injured creature was still inside, it was burning too.

  At least that was good riddance. One less monster to worry about.