Monsters: The Ashes Trilogy

by Ilsa J. Bick

  One thing was certain, though. He had absolutely no reason to hang on to the Glock now. He needed his hands free. But instead of dropping the weapon to the snow—the smart move—Tom did something incredibly dumb. Angling his body, keeping the tip of his knife pointed at her head, he swept his left hand around and under his open parka to shove the weapon into the small of his back—

  And that was all it took, that little move. He wasn’t centered and she knew it. He saw her dart forward, low, a white blur, stepping in. His reaction was clumsy, an awkward stumble as he tried backpedaling fast. Her right hand, which was closest, swept in a high cut. Gasping, he struggled to whip his left arm back into line to fend off the strike. Too late, he read the cock of her elbow, registered the feint.

  Suddenly, she was there, twisting beneath his right arm, ducking under his knife. Her blade flickered, its silver tongue licking side to side—one-two-three, zip-zip-zip. He couldn’t follow it, didn’t really see the knife at all, but on the third pass, he felt a lick of cold as his clothing ripped and then a snaky burn, a line of fire across his exposed belly. Biting back a shout, he arched, pulling himself out of reach, but she was already withdrawing, backing up. The setting sun bathed her skin as richly red as the blood welling from the gash across his stomach. He could feel the oozy drizzle, warm and thick.

  She could’ve killed me right then. Cold sweat oiled his face as she began to circle again, a balletic move, her knives sketching their slow, mesmeric back-and-forth. She had me, dead to rights. A single thrust, a twist, and she could have watched him bleed out. Playing. She wants this to go slow. Grunting, he clamped his left forearm across his middle. A slow slither of blood was beginning to worm over his thighs and drip to the snow. This wasn’t going to kill him, but if he got cut too many more times or she decided to slash just a little deeper, unzip him so his guts spilled out, he’d never keep his feet. Got to do something …

  Moving again, lightly despite the snow, she came in fast, jabbing with her right. Acting purely on instinct, he tried countering with his own knife, which meant that he had to twist to his left. As she pulled the thrust in a perfectly timed feint, he realized much too late that not only was his right side exposed, but he’d taken his eyes from the knife in her left hand. Shit! He tried to correct, to turn, but she was so damn fast! The knife ripped in a backhanded slice from his right hip all the way up to his chest.

  This time, a shout of pain leapt from his mouth. Doubling over, he tried to protect his torso—stupid, stupid, stupid; that brought his face into her strike zone—and she was right there, the knife whickering for his face.

  What happened next was all reflex. Uncoiling, he whipped up with his left arm to defend himself … and damn if he didn’t still have that Glock.

  She saw it coming, tried going with the blow, but she was a fraction of a second too late. The hard butt clipped her nose. It was so fast, he didn’t know he’d connected until her neck snapped back. A bright red bib spumed down her chin and over her chest, and then she was blowing, off-balance, shaking her head like a wounded dog, her blood flying in ropy spatters.

  Come on, come on, move, move! She was less than twenty feet away when he charged because, he figured, what the hell. He was outmatched, and she was going to kill him if he kept letting her dictate the fight. So he had to move; he had to step into this; he had to muscle past his fear and own this one.

  Bellowing, he closed the distance in three big strides. Snarling, her face cramped with fury, she thrust to deflect with her left and jab with her right, but his reach was longer and for once he did exactly the right move at exactly the right moment.

  Dropping to his left knee, he swept his left arm up, knocking her blade out of line, and then he thrust his KA-BAR into her middle with all his might. He felt the blade jam through thick down and clothing. For one terrible second, he thought that either she had on too many layers or maybe even a Kevlar vest. But then he felt her jump, heard her scream, felt the give of flesh and muscle. Dropping his right elbow, he twisted the knife, tearing both cloth and something much denser and wetter. Still screeching, she arched back, trying to get away. His knife jumped in his palm as the serrated edge snagged on cloth and, more likely, guts. So, two choices now, and only two: Go with her, press the advantage; get her on her back in the snow. Suffocate her, choke her to death, beat in her skull with the Glock, maybe even get his hands on one of her knives.

  Or drop the Glock and go for the Bravo.

  He flung the Glock aside. Didn’t follow its arc. Either he’d find it later, or he’d be dead. Fisting her parka, he yanked her as close as a lover, then put some muscle behind it and drove his knife into her as fast as he could, as far as it would go.

  She screeched again. Her own knives flashed, and he ducked, turtling his head and neck. One knife missed. The second didn’t. First, the parka and then the flesh of his left forearm parted in a fiery red shriek. Roaring with pain, he pushed up, still holding her close, his KA-BAR so deep she could’ve been a chunk of beef skewered for a kabob. He could smell their blood mingling now, the rank iron stink of it. His stomach was slick; his chest and left arm were dripping. Before she could slash up, he gave her a mighty shove. She flew a good ten feet to collapse in a loose-limbed bundle. Her own knives fell from her hands to glimmer darkly against snow that was beginning to pink and then grow bright red as a bloody puddle overflowed the cup of her belly and spilled down her sides.

  For anyone or anything else, that would’ve been the end. The bad guy pulling a knife out of his stomach to use against you? Only happened in movies. In real life, that little trick never went well, and not just because it hurt like a bitch. Extracting a knife or any stabbing weapon was, in fact, an excellent way to hasten death. A knife might slice into an artery, but it might also be a cork. Pull it out, and stand back as the blood flowed. When the knife was serrated, like his KA-BAR, it was worse. Those barbs hooked. That was the point. So in addition to bleeding like stink, which was its own special kind of agony when it came to abdominal wounds, you might also pull out a sausage string of guts at the same time. His squad medic once told him to imagine someone peeling your face from your skull, and then multiply that by about a billion. Clawing out your eyes would hurt less than ripping out your own intestines. Pain like that, you wished it could kill you.

  But this … thing? It didn’t seem to feel pain, not for long. Look how fast it had recovered from that kick. Now, dumbstruck, he watched as she wrapped her hands around the KA-BAR’s grip. Even that tiny jostle of the blade hurt; he could see it in the flare of her blood-soaked nostrils, the tight grimace, the strain in her neck, the arch of her back.

  My God. What was this thing? This couldn’t be a feral Chucky, unless there was a difference between new Chuckies, ones turning now versus those who had turned right away. Ferals weren’t organized; they were crazy, they couldn’t plan. Not even Jim, his friend, had been anything other than a rabid animal. So this girl was something new and different: nearly immune to pain, crazy-fearless. Smart. A killing machine. And I’ve seen this before, too—but where?

  She pulled—

  And then, to Tom’s horror … the KA-BAR moved.

  33

  Ellie couldn’t move. Her insides jellied, and her knees began to quiver. When she swallowed, she could hear the sharp click in her throat. My rifle, where is it? She didn’t dare take her eyes from the girl to look, but she didn’t think she’d remembered to take the Savage when she went for Bella. That means it’s behind me, still in the death house.

  The girl only watched, which was good because that gave Ellie a little breathing room. Unless there are others and they’re circling around. Mina’s growl had swelled to an open-mouth snarl, and Ellie risked slipping her eyes down for a quick peek. Mina’s attention was fixed on the girl. So either there was only this one people-eater, or many others far enough back that Mina couldn’t smell or see them. She also saw Bella’s nostrils flare and that quick flick of the mare’s head as the horse got win
d of the people-eater. No, no, no, please don’t bolt, you stupid horse; just wait, wait.

  The girl was sure waiting for something. Ellie felt the truth of that without understanding why. Her gaze ran over the grimy snarl of the girl’s hair, which was frozen solid where it dangled below a watch cap that was once cream-colored but now a filthy gray. Ellie couldn’t tell what color that grubby parka might have been, but the snake of a scarf dragged from the people-eater’s neck in a limp, lime-green coil.

  That scarf … Ellie thought back to the moment on the lake when all the crows had left. That snow, the cedar swaying, and a flash of lime green that I thought was just pine … The girl had been there? Watching all along and following, and keeping downwind so Mina couldn’t smell her? Smart. But why show up now? Why not wait a little longer?

  Maybe because she knows she won’t get another chance. The girl’s narrow face was all angles and shadows, the cheeks hollowed into valleys, the eyes far back in their sockets. She’s starving, so hungry she just couldn’t wait one more second.

  But the girl wasn’t acting right. People-eaters came at you with guns and knives, bare teeth, hands. Claws. They did it all: set up ambushes, stormed out of the woods. Maybe they’d show themselves after they surrounded you—that had happened to Eli and his sister—but this girl was alone and only watching.

  On the snow, by her feet, Chris moaned.

  I have to get out of here. What am I standing around for? She was panting, part of her brain going in a swirly-whirly scream: Run run run to the death house, shut the door so she can’t get in! She could do that, grab Mina—what about Bella, what about Bella, will she be all right?—get inside, get to her gun, and then wait wait wait, like a bunny in its hole, for Eli and Jayden to find her. But Chris, what about Chris? She’ll kill him, she’ll eat him and …

  You can’t let that happen. It was the little closet-voice. Think, Ellie, think think think. She’s watching, she’s not moving.

  “Because she’s waiting for the others.” Her voice was squeezy-wheezy small, riding the up-coaster to hysteria. Once she hit the top, there’d be no stopping the zoom into crazy-scared. Across the clearing, the girl’s head perked, cocking a little at the sound of her voice the way Mina did when she was puzzled. “She knows she can’t get past Mina alone.”

  Stop breathing so fast. Listen to what you said. If that’s true, you still have time.

  “And what if it’s not?”

  Mina will protect you. The closet-voice was very patient, like Grandpa Jack when he said, yes, life wasn’t fair, but no, being hateful wouldn’t help. She’s got teeth, you know.

  “Is that a joke?” she squeaked, then thought, Oh, is that dumb or what? But the closet-voice did have a point. Should she get the gun?

  Don’t leave Chris. She wasn’t sure who that was, the closet-voice or her, but knew that was right. Just had to keep her head, stay calm like Alex and Tom. It took every scrap of self-control to turn her back, but she couldn’t both roll Chris onto his tummy and then pull him onto the saddle and watch the girl. “Don’t let her get me, Mina,” she said in that squeaky-scared voice. Bending, Ellie planted her hands against Chris’s side and pushed, a pitiful little shove as her strength tried to flee with her voice. Chris was big, and she was such a runt. Come on, don’t be such a girl. But she had to try twice more before Chris flopped onto his tummy. The burlap bags slid, revealing white thigh and part of his bottom.

  “Ohhh-kaaay,” she sang, thinking she’d never seen so much of a boy this way. She tucked the bags back into place as best she could. “Oh Alex, oh Alex, oh T-Tom …” Planting her boots, she fisted burlap and jerked Chris all the way to the ramp’s edge, so close that his hands dangled. Jumping down, bracing herself for the shush-shush-shush of snow as the girl charged, she swung onto Bella. Then she hooked her left foot into the stirrup but dug her right heel into the ramp. Grumbling, the horse tried to sidestep away.

  “No, no, no, come on.” Ellie hauled on the right rein to turn the mare’s head. Then she reached over, grabbed Chris’s arms above the elbows, and heaved. “Daddy, help,” she said, as Chris’s head cleared the saddle. “Oh, Daddy Daddy Daddy.” She kept pulling, using her boot to steady the horse as she yanked Chris onto the saddle, awkwardly walking her hands up Chris’s sides until he folded at his waist to drape over Bella’s withers and shoulders like a too-long blanket.

  This would have to do. For a brief moment, she considered the Savage, still inside the death house, and wondered if she should close the slider. Hannah would be really pissed if this girl and any friends went inside to snack. Heck with that. I’m getting Chris out of here. Pulling in a big breath, she coaxed Bella into a turn. On the saddle, Chris’s body shifted but didn’t slide. The girl was exactly where she’d been, too: no closer, no further.

  “Mina, get ready, girl.” Ellie’s fingers trembled as she untied but didn’t remove Bella’s scarf. Bunching the reins in her left hand, Ellie leaned over and across Chris, planting her elbows against his right side to bracket his body and hold him in place. Then, with a fast flick of her wrist, she snapped off the scarf.

  “Mina!” At the same instant, she gave the horse, already starting to rear, a sharp giddyap kick. “Mina, off! Release!”

  Snarling, the dog surged down the ramp at the same instant that Bella came down with a spine-jarring crash, and bolted. Ellie’s breath jammed out of her throat, and she landed in her saddle with a thump. Chris’s body jounced and he started to slide. No no no! She dug her elbows in hard enough to feel the birdcage of his ribs. Hang on hang on hang on!

  Ahead, she could see the girl’s face suddenly snap up, the glaze of hunger quickly shading to astonishment and then fear. The girl leapt aside in a swirl of dirty hair and lime-green scarf as Bella flashed past, and then they were speeding away, Bella kicking snow, Mina racing after, the trees slipping into a blur as they crashed down the trail.

  Craning, Ellie snatched only a single glance back. The people-eater wasn’t running after them or charging onto the trail with her pals. Instead, she only stood there, and to Ellie, she didn’t look remotely dangerous. All Ellie saw was a forlorn, lonely, tattered scarecrow of a girl in a green scarf, and for an instant, Ellie wondered if, maybe, this girl was somehow different. But then Bella swerved right and the girl was gone.

  Safe, we’re safe. That was when it hit Ellie, like the full heat of the sun suddenly blasting through clouds. I did it. Me and Mina and Bella, we really did it. And all by themselves, too—no Eli, no Jayden, no nobody but her and Mina and her horse—and she wanted to tell her daddy and Grandpa Jack all about it. She wanted to tell Alex and Tom. She wanted that so bad she could taste the story in her mouth, every word, each syllable.

  I miss you guys. Her eyes stung, and a second later, she felt the dash of a tear. Or maybe it was only the blade of that icy wind. Whatever. For once, it was all right. This was a good cry.

  Yeah, the closet-voice said, just as long as you don’t fall off.

  “Oh, be quiet.” Her laugh was shaky and a little watery, too, as she hugged Chris even closer. “Hang on, Chris. It’ll be okay, I’ve got you.” And then Ellie began to chant, her heart leaping with every surge of Bella’s hooves: “I got you, Chris. I got you, I got you, I got you.”

  34

  She’s going to get me. Tom’s horror solidified into grim certainty as the girl tugged and his knife, smeary with the Chucky’s blood, appeared inch by gory inch. She’ll have that out in five seconds.

  He had to get to the Bravo, the last weapon he had, the only one that might work. If she got close again, he didn’t think he could stop her. Rocking back onto his right foot, he turned and churned in an awkward stagger through snow and debris. His pack seemed impossibly far away, the Bravo another mile beyond that, receding as if by some tricky camerawork. He thought he was moving fast, but his vision was starting to go fuzzy with every step, his head beginning to balloon. He was still losing too much blood. His chest was smeary and wet. Cooling gore slick
ed his thighs. Keep moving, don’t pass out, don’t faint.

  Ahead, the boulders that marked the foot of the boy Chucky’s tomb loomed, filling his sight. Staggering to the rocks, he nearly fell but braced himself with his right hand. Swaying, he could see his pack now and, beyond that, the Bravo. As he lurched past the open trench, his boot banged that rock-hatchet he’d used to smash that frozen Chucky to bits, and he stumbled. Now, wildly off-balance, he actually turned in a half circle, struggling to keep to his feet. But he didn’t, couldn’t, and knew he was going down.

  And there she was, coming for him, blistering over the snow, hurling herself in a tackle. The blow was a sledgehammer to his sternum, a vicious blast he felt straight through to his spine. His breath jolted from his mouth. He was aware that he was falling straight back, pole-axed, his lungs on fire and the electric shock working into his brain. Out of the gray fog that passed for his vision, he saw the girl loom; felt the drip of her blood on his cheeks and the hard pressure of her knees as she tacked his shoulders. The ruin he’d made of that dead Chucky was to his left, and he saw her head flick that way as the Eagle glinted in the setting sun.

  For a crazy second, he wanted to scream, Pick up the Eagle, pick it up, pick it up, take a shot, take it! It was a suicidal thought, it was insane, but she was on top of him, and he was desperate, out of options. The Eagle shouldn’t work; it ought to come apart in her hands. Not kill her—that only happened in movies, too—but if she did try it and the weapon gave out in a burst of shrapnel and bullets, that might buy him just a little more time. Because he had nothing else: no air, no weapons, very little strength, no options.