by Sam Sisavath
Twenty-Six
NOW
Wash wondered if this was what freefalling from outer space was like for astronauts. The wind ripping at his face, the odd feeling of weightlessness, and then finally, at the very end, the bone-crunching (This is going to hurt!) impact of smashing down to earth.
He was right. It did hurt. A lot.
There was throbbing pain everywhere, but Wash didn’t let that stop him from immediately rolling over onto his stomach and pushing himself back up onto his knees, every joint along his body groaning in protest.
“This is it, kid!” the Old Man shouted inside his head. “This is the end of the road! No time to be lollygagging!”
He still had the kukri safely holstered in its sheath, thank God, and Wash drew it now with his left hand. He would have used his right—his dominant hand—but he didn’t have control of it. The entire arm was numb and dangled at his side like a superfluous appendage. One Eye had pulled it out of its socket with a flick of its wrist.
“It’s too strong,” the Old Man said. “Don’t let it touch you again, kid!”
That’s the trick, isn’t it?
There was blood in his mouth, and Wash swirled it around before spitting it out. He was in the streets of Jasper, surrounded by ghouls and scared civilians watching him from behind curtains, from the safety of their darkened homes. He didn’t believe for a second anyone was coming out to help. They hadn’t when they heard Lyla earlier. And still hadn’t budged when Keith tried to rescue her.
“You always knew it would end like this,” the Old Man said. “One on one. Mano-a-mano. Slayer versus monster. This is the life, kid.”
I know.
“So stop waiting for help that’s not gonna come, and get on with killing the fucker already!”
Yes, sir.
Wash gritted his teeth before slamming his right shoulder into the ground. Roaring pain flooded over him, and it took everything he had not to scream out in agony.
Instead, the only sounds in the streets were his haggard breathing mixed in with the slurp-slurp-slurp of black-eyed ghouls feasting on Keith’s body. From where he kneeled, Wash could make out four, maybe five of the creatures. The rest were dead. The ones that weren’t were either too busy with Keith to notice him, or it wouldn’t let them interfere.
Wash looked over at it now.
One Eye casually hopped down the sidewalk and sauntered over to him, that stupid thing it probably thought was a grin plastered over its bony face. It looked very much like a walking skeleton, as if it had broken free from a high school science lab somewhere, slapped on a thin film of black layer, and called it flesh, then wandered out into the world. There was nothing natural about it, and Wash didn’t see anything that reminded him of what it used to be.
Who it used to be.
“I’m dead, kid,” the Old Man said. “That’s not me. You know that.”
I know.
“So stop thinking about it, and get on with it! Kill the fucker!”
I’m trying, old timer, I’m trying.
“That must have hurt,” the creature hissed, its echoey voice infiltrating Wash’s thoughts.
Wash pushed himself up onto two shaky legs. Fire burned up and down the entire length of his right arm, but he was able to (mostly) shove that into the background. Mostly. He waited for the numbness to set in.
Any second now…
“What’s the matter, kid?” One Eye said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Wash clenched his teeth. “All I see is a piece of shit that needs killing.”
“And then what? Are you going to bury me again?”
“This time, I’m going to cut off your head and drive this knife through your fucking brain first.”
One Eye snickered. It continued walking toward him, moving slowly on purpose. Wash knew what it was trying to do—prolonging their encounter so it could taunt him for as long as possible. This was all a game. Everything was a game to it.
Wash focused on the glowing blue eye. The only eye, because the left was gone, a black hole where an eyeball used to be. It was destroyed when the Old Man tried to blow his brains out at the bungalow, but Wash had thrown off his aim. He’d still died, though. The bullet had gotten just enough of his brain to kill him.
This wasn’t the Old Man. Not anymore. It was something else. A ghoul. A blue-eyed ghoul. Everything that made the Old Man what he was, was gone. Wash couldn’t see any clues to his friend’s existence in the monster’s face, because this was a monster and nothing more.
It was just another monster.
“You’re wondering how it happened, aren’t you?” the creature hissed. “Why I didn’t die that night. You’re wondering why it took so long for the transformation to happen. Or why this”—he tapped the shrunken emptiness where his left eye used to be—“hasn’t regenerated yet. To be honest, I don’t know the answers either.”
The ghoul wasn’t entirely wrong. Wash had been asking himself those questions since this “game” of theirs began. But the more he thought about them, the more the Old Man’s words kept coming back to him:
“You’re wasting your time thinking about it,” the Old Man once said. “It is what it is, kid. Silver kills the monsters, so we use silver. If dirt took them down, we’d be using dirt. Let the eggheads spend their time thinking about the why’s. That’s not our job. Next!”
Next, Wash thought, before saying out loud, “I don’t care. There’s nothing special about you. You’re just another notch on my knife.”
“I don’t believe you,” the creature said, tilting its head slightly to one side. “I think you do care…kid.”
It smiled when it said kid, clearly trying to get under his skin.
And it worked, because Wash lunged forward, slicing with the kukri. Even if the ghoul didn’t know what he was about to do before he did it, it could have simply sidestepped to avoid his attack. It was fast enough, and he was moving too slowly, his motions handicapped by all the aches and pains coming from everywhere.
Instead, One Eye just grabbed the machete by the blade and wrested it from his grip. Wash staggered away, almost fell to his knees again, but managed to maintain his balance—or, at least, remain upright, if just barely.
He put some more distance between himself and the creature, at the same time glimpsing the H&K rifle lying a few meters down the street. It was too far for him to grab, and surely the ghoul—because it was so goddamn fast—could intercept him without any problems before he was even halfway there.
So Wash looked away from the rifle and at the monster as it held the kukri it had taken from him in its hand, while the other hand—the one it had used to grab the machete—bled black drops of blood to the street. Not that the monster seemed to notice or care. It would heal from it soon enough.
“I made this for you,” it said, turning the blade over and letting the moonlight glint off the shiny surface. “The memories come and go, but it’s always strongest when I think about you. I remember this.”
The creature stood still, staring at the machete in its hand. For a second, Wash could almost believe that this thing, this monster, actually remembered what it was like to be the Old Man. That maybe, just maybe, there was a small part of his friend still in there, somewhere.
No.
Was it possible?
No!
He was in uncharted territory here. After all, what did he really know about the transformation from human to ghoul? Maybe—
No, goddammit, NO!
“You didn’t make shit for me,” Wash said, spitting the words out. “He did, and he’s dead.”
And just like that, whatever shred of humanity might have lingered in the nightcrawler’s face disappeared as it tossed the long knife to the street.
Then it looked up and made a tsk-tsk motion with its finger. “I guess it’s true what they say; no one can hurt you as much as your kids.”
“I’m not your fucking kid,” Wash said.
“I taught
you everything you know.”
“You didn’t teach me shit. He did. And he’s dead.” Wash spat out another mouthful of blood. “You’re nothing, and I’m going to end you tonight.”
“How? You can’t even use one of your arms.”
“I don’t need both arms.”
“Then show me!” it hissed, its face contorting maniacally.
Wash dived to the side and shouted, “Now!” just before the door into the red building opened and Ana stepped outside with the shotgun.
He’d seen her in the window behind the creature, watching them in the streets. Thanks to Keith’s lantern, which she was holding next to her face, he was able to read her expression—but especially her eyes—and knew what she was thinking, what she wanted to do. Wash didn’t know if One Eye either didn’t notice her presence back there, or if it just didn’t care because it didn’t think she was any threat. Or maybe, just maybe, it was so focused on him—like it had been out in the plains when Keith almost got the drop on it—that it was caught off guard.
The boom! of Ana’s shotgun blast shattered the stillness for the second time that night as Wash lunged for the H&K on the street. He wanted desperately to look over to see if she’d managed to nail One Eye—maybe take its whole fucking head off with the shot—but he couldn’t afford the extra second or two that would have cost him.
The gun! Get to the gun now now NOW!
Wash focused everything he had on the rifle, snatching it up from the street even as pain rippled through him and his right arm tried to pull itself free from its socket again. He clenched down to force away the thousand explosions going on across his body and concentrated on the heavy weight of the H&K. The magazine was fully loaded, and Wash lifted it, finally looking toward the red building—
One Eye held Ana by the throat and was slamming her against the wall of Keith’s building over and over and over. Ana had lost the shotgun, which explained why she hadn’t gotten off a second shot. One was all she’d managed, because One Eye was that fast.
Wash lifted the rifle, sucked in a deep breath, and took aim.
It turned its head to look back at him—there were small holes in its cheeks, tiny craters where buckshot from Ana’s first and only shot had landed—just before Wash squeezed the trigger—
—it jerked its head back just a fraction—
—and the round pekked! off the brick wall between the creature and Ana!
No! Goddammit, no!
It swung Ana around, fingers still gripping tightly around her throat, moving her from one spot to another as if she were little more than a rag doll. Her body swayed lifelessly, clear signs that Ana had either blacked out or—
No, she’s alive. She has to still be alive!
In the second or two after Wash’s shot echoed, he couldn’t pull the trigger again. Ana was in the way—which was exactly what the creature had intended by moving her between the two of them.
He thought he saw it grinning just before it threw Ana at him.
Wash didn’t think—he didn’t have time to think—and dropped the H&K and caught Ana’s body as it sailed through the cold air toward him. The only other option would have been to sidestep and let her crash into the street, and he was too afraid that might kill her because she had looked so lifeless in its grip.
So he gave up the rifle and caught her instead.
Ana’s weight, combined with his already weakened state, sent him reeling backward. Then his legs gave, and he went down on one knee with Ana’s limp body in his arms—
The sudden pop-pop-pop! of new gunshots made Wash look up.
One Eye, staggering back from the red brick building as—
The kid, Chris, standing in the doorway and firing a handgun at the creature. The rattle of her shots was like thunderclaps running up and down the streets of Jasper. She was firing so fast and striking the monster in the chest with every other shot.
“You see how fast she’s shooting? She’s not going to last very long, kid!” the Old Man shouted.
I know, I know!
Wash laid Ana down—a little rougher than he would have liked, though she didn’t make a sound, maybe because she was already (Don’t say it! Don’t you even think it!) dead—and searched for, found, and grabbed the H&K he’d tossed nearby.
Chris had stopped shooting, and Wash didn’t need to glance over to know the kid had spent all her bullets. If she had a good head on her shoulders, she would be trying to close the door, then praying that One Eye didn’t go after her. If she didn’t, then she might do something stupid like try to reload while still exposed.
Wash stood up, lifting the rifle, at the same time looking over at Chris.
The kid was trying to reload her pistol, but she was in too much of a hurry and having trouble getting the spare magazine into the gun. One Eye stood in the street with an expression that could almost pass for bemusement on its blood-covered face.
Wash was taking aim at the ghoul when something moved in the corner of his eye. He turned just in time to see a lone nightcrawler running toward him, its lithe body seeming to hop against the dark ground. Wash shot it, and even before it dropped, he spun around—
One Eye was standing in front of him. “Hey, kid,” it hissed, just before it hit him in the chest with an open palm.
Wash flew through the air and smashed into the rebars securing a window on a building across the street. Fire erupted from his toes and flared up his legs, threatening to engulf his mind even as he fell back down to the wooden sidewalk.
And yet, somehow, he’d managed to hold on to the H&K!
“Don’t lose the gun! Don’t lose the gun!” the Old Man shouted inside his head.
One Eye was walking toward him, when Ana (She’s alive!) scrambled to her knees and drove a knife—the same Keith had given her to give to Chris earlier!—into the creature’s back. It roared before reaching around and backhanding her, sending Ana flipping through the air and into one of the foundation poles in front of the red building. She collapsed to the dirt street and lay in a pile, and this time he was afraid she really might be dead.
“Don’t think about her!” the Old Man shouted. “End it now, kid! End it now!”
Wash was on his knees when he lifted the H&K and took aim. One Eye turned around, Ana’s knife sticking out of its back like a useless third arm.
“John!” Wash shouted. “John Kelly!”
The ghoul froze at the name.
It wasn’t much. It was maybe half a heartbeat—maybe even less than that—and the same look that Wash had seen before, when it was holding the kukri, flashed across its face.
Slow is smooth…
Wash squeezed the trigger—
…and smooth is fast!
—and hit the creature between the eyes!
There was a momentary look of confusion on the ghoul’s face, as if it were trying to figure out what had just happened. Whether it reached a conclusion or not, the results were the same: Its legs buckled underneath it, and it collapsed to the street, resting perfectly still where it fell.
Wash stood up and turned around, just as the remaining nightcrawlers disengaged themselves from Keith’s corpse and stared at One Eye’s body. If they were still capable of emotion, Wash might have thought they were confused by what they saw, and that confusion had led to paralysis.
He shot them one by one. It was easy, like shooting fish in a barrel. Even after the first one dropped, the others didn’t try to evade his fire or even seem to have the will to do so. He felt almost sorry for them.
Almost.
Epilogue
“Who’s John Kelly?”
“You heard that?”
“I wasn’t the only one who heard it,” Ana said. “It heard you, too.” Then, when he still hadn’t answered her question, “So, who’s John Kelly?”
“John Kelly was the man who trained me,” Wash said. “But no one calls him that. I’m not sure anyone else but me even knows his real name.” Wash paused for a moment, before
continuing. “It’s not something he talked about very often. His old life before The Purge. Before everything. To him, John Kelly was who he used to be but wasn’t anymore.”
Ana forced herself to sit up on the bed, grimacing with pain as she did so.
“Hey, come on,” Wash said, reaching for her.
“I’m fine,” Ana said, even though he could see on her face that she wasn’t.
She managed to sit up just enough with the help of the big pillow behind her. Ana searched out his face, maybe trying to read him. The truth was, he belonged on another bed next to Ana. His body was bruised and battered from his toes all the way up to his head, but that generous dose of painkillers Lyla had found for him (and for herself, after her own ordeal) was having a hell of an effect. His brain knew there was pain, but his body, fortunately, wasn’t cooperating.
He sat at the foot of Ana’s bed and watched her back. Her face was bruised and her nose was broken, with a bandage over the bridge. Given what she had gone through last night, he didn’t have to imagine how bad she looked underneath her clothes. She didn’t look herself, but he thought she was still breathtakingly beautiful anyway. Maybe the fact that she was alive when he thought she was dead last night had a little something to do with that.
“You lied to us,” Ana finally said. “To me and Keith last night.”
“I didn’t,” Wash said.
“Yes, you did. You said that thing killed your mentor. You didn’t say anything about it being your mentor.”
“That part must have slipped my mind.”
“Uh huh.”
“It was…complicated.”
“That’s not complicated, Wash. That’s borderline insane.”
He smiled. “Would it have made much of a difference if I told you the whole truth?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“It is what it is. Can’t change any of that now.”
“I’m still going to hold it against you.”
“And I wouldn’t blame you.”
She glanced over at the window across the room from them. Silhouetted figures were moving around on the sidewalk.
