by Amy Fecteau
“He told me the ancient Romans were baby-killers,” said Matheus.
“Only the ugly ones,” said Quin.
“You’re sick.”
“Different times, Sunshine.”
Matheus stopped for a red light. He spotted a cop car parked across the intersection. Readjusting his grip on the wheel, Matheus thought inconspicuous thoughts. His plan did not include time for a traffic stop.
“What did he really tell you?” asked Quin.
“Why are you so concerned?” Matheus rolled through the intersection at a quarter of his normal speed. He risked a glance at the cop car. Empty.
“Well, it worked.”
Matheus looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “He told me that by assuming everything was my fault, I was treating the others like children and I had to respect that they had a right to their own decisions. More or less.”
Quin let out a startled laugh. “Alistair knows you well.”
“I guess.”
“You were lovers.”
“Jesus Christ, do not tell me this is when you choose to have this conversation,” Matheus said.
“There is no conversation,” said Quin. “I’m not jealous, Matheus. I’m just not used to sharing.”
“I’m not a bowl of ice cream.” Matheus turned right onto Broadmoor Avenue, and cut over to the left turn lane. “You share toys, not people.” He drummed a staccato beat on the steering wheel. “Anyway, you don’t need to worry. I’m not sleeping with Alistair anymore. Freddie would rip my arms off.”
“I’m not worried,” said Quin. “You’re right, though. This is not the time to talk about this.”
“Well, good.”
“It can wait until tomorrow.”
“Oh, God, really?” Matheus groaned. “How about it waits until never?”
“Never doesn’t work for me,” said Quin. “I have a dentist appointment.”
The green arrow flicked on, and Matheus turned, scowling at road ahead of him. The engine squealed as the truck tackled the steep hill.
“For what it’s worth, if you hadn’t insisted on coming with me, I would have asked anyway,” Matheus said.
He didn’t know how to put into words the difference in his feelings for Alistair and for Quin. Lust played some role; Quin suited his tastes in a way Alistair never managed. That didn’t explain everything, though. Vulnerability and safety, knowing that he could break down in front of Quin, but never Alistair, all things that played parts in the difference. Matheus trusted Alistair, but he knew if Alistair saw him sobbing the way he had earlier, things between them would have changed. Not a lot, not on purpose, but that moment would always have been there between them. He knew Alistair wouldn’t hurt him, but he didn’t know the reverse. With Quin, he felt safe to be himself.
“I’m not sure how I feel about that,” said Quin. “Considering what we’re about to do.”
Apollonia’s cottage rose into view, perched on the top of the hill. By now, his people had positioned themselves, taking out the sentries in the small copse behind the house, waiting for the signal. Matheus revved the engine. He snapped his seatbelt, locking it against his chest. Quin copied him.
“Morituri te salutamus,” Matheus said with a reckless grin, and slammed down the gas pedal.
“Si post fata venit gloria non proper.” Quin squeezed his eyes shut, his face ashen.
“Don’t worry,” Matheus said. “It’ll only hurt for a minute.”
With that, he jerked the wheel, crashing through Apollonia’s white picket fence and into the picturesque front room of her quaint little cottage.
atheus raised his head. He blinked at the pile of boards and plaster covering the front of the truck. Dust saturated the air. Pain spiked in his chest, stabbing into his lungs. With effort, he wrenched the seat belt loose.
“Quin,” he said, his voice swallowed by a burst of explosions. “Shit. Quin!”
He turned, the muscles in his neck twanging. A long, ragged piece of wood bisected the seat, the end sticking out the windshield. On the other side of the board, Quin slumped against the dashboard.
“Sunshine.” Quin groaned. He shifted, then with a muttered curse, sat up. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his face. Dust turned his hair white, coated his eyelashes. He blinked at Matheus.
“We’ve got to go,” said Matheus. The chalky taste of plaster filled his mouth.
“Yeah,” said Quin.
Matheus shoved at his door. The latch gave, and he tumbled to the side, clinging to the door handle. He bit back a yelp as his bruised ribs stopped by for a chat. Matheus closed his eyes, fighting back the urge to curl into a tiny ball and weep. He forced his leg out of the truck, moving with the grace of a freshman stop-motion film project. The house shook, buffeted by explosions and Molotov cocktails. The crash of breaking glass rose amidst the frantic shouting. His body loosened the more he moved. His ribs still sent regular telegrams to his brain, but he refused to open them. He clambered into the bed of the truck. One of the containers had been punctured; gasoline coated the steel. A haze of fumes rose up, burning the inside of his nose. He knelt, grabbing at the bungees holding the containers in place.
“Quin!” he shouted. “Any time now!”
A screech of twisted metal, and Quin’s door shot open. He jumped free of the truck, one arm cradled to his chest.
Matheus stood, hurling the plastic container over the side of truck. “I told you not to brace with your wrists!” He reached for the next set of bungees.
Quin spared him a brief glare, and spun as a group of Apollonia’s soldiers poured into the room. They scrambled over the shattered remains of the parlor, stumbling on the smashed loveseat, glass crunching beneath their feet. On the far wall, a photograph of a tree serene in its field still hung, despite a coffee table embedded in the plaster. Quin took a step or two back and planted his feet. The first man over the rubble launched himself airborne. Quin kicked. Bone cracked; the man howled, clutching at his knee as he collapsed.
Quin twisted out of the man’s path and drove his heel into the small of the man’s back. Matheus winced at the snap of vertebrae. A pair ran forward, both armed with short swords. The woman got to him first. Quin dodged her initial swing. He jammed his elbow into the soldier’s face, a fist to her stomach a nanosecond later. With a whoosh of air, she doubled over. Quin grabbed her braid and flung her into the path of her comrades.
The second sword flashed, arcing through the clouds of dust. Quin ducked, but not quickly enough. The tip sliced his cheek, curving from lip to ear. Matheus leaned forward, gripping the side of the truck with both hands. He tried to shout, but the words tangled in his throat, choking him.
A soldier grabbed Quin from behind. Quin threw his weight backward. The man staggered, but didn’t fall. The sword-bearer approached, blade held steady. Quin grinned at him, and the man paused.
“Come on!” yelled the soldier holding Quin. “What are you―?”
He twisted as the sword-bearer thrust. The blade pierced the soldier’s side. Grabbing the hilt, Quin forced the sword deeper. The man holding him let out a gurgle. Quin slipped out of his grip, scooped up the woman’s sword, and rose in a swooping motion. The soldier who’d thrust at him screamed soprano. He fell, curling into the fetal position before a quick slash ended his pain. Quin turned, dispatching the man who’d captured him with a flick of his wrist.
The remaining three hesitated. One, the woman with the braid, backed away, her eyes wide. Matheus didn’t blame her. They’d started out with six against one. Now their number had been halved by a man with a broken wrist. The other two, not as blessed with common sense, dove at Quin. Metal clanged against metal. Quin retreated, his back hitting the side of the truck. The pair of soldiers didn’t rush in separately. They worked in concert, one attacking, the other defending. Quin’s swings deflected most of the blows, but a slice appeared across his biceps, then a gash in his side. Death by a thousand cuts.
Matheus grabbed the last
gasoline container. He clawed at the cap, before giving up and puncturing the side with a nail. Standing, he doused the two attackers. Spitting, wiping their eyes, the pair fell back. He hurled the container at them.
“Quin!” he yelled, jumping out of the truck. “Come on!”
Matheus pulled a box of matches out of his pocket. His hands shook as he lit the first one. The match landed in a pool of gasoline, sputtered, and went out. The two remaining soldiers darted forward. Matheus swore. Another match flared to life, and Quin snatched the box out of his hand.
“What―?”
Quin flung a lit match into the hair of the first soldier. She screamed. Her sword clattered on the floor. Her companion leapt forward, trying to beat out the flames. Backing away, Quin flicked another match, then another. The woman’s shirt, soaked in gasoline, caught immediately. Panicked, she ran, tripping over the piles of debris. The man lunged for Quin, only to be smacked to the side. He lay blinking on the ground, weakly waving his arms as Quin dropped a match onto his chest.
“No, no,” he moaned. Flames covered his body. He shrieked.
“Quin,” said Matheus. “Jesus Christ.” He coughed. The smell of cooked meat mixed with the acrid black smoke of burning polyester. Fire raced across the room, supercharged by the gasoline.
Quin flung away the last of the matches. A whoomp of flame scorched Matheus’s skin. He sprinted for the open air.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he chanted. He flicked a glance over his shoulder. Yellow and red flames lit up the yard; thick smoke billowed up, blocking out the stars. People flowed out of the exits, some carrying swords or crossbows, a few with assault rifles.
“Chainsaw!” yelled Quin.
“Fuck!” Matheus ducked as the chainsaw tore at his hair. “Joan!”
“Sorry,” said Joan. She grinned at him.
“What the hell?” Matheus ran his hand over the top of his head. Ends of his hair prickled against his palm, but he didn’t feel any wetness.
“You’re fine,” said Joan. The flames danced across her face, reflected in the dark of her eyes. “We should have brought marshmallows.”
“I’ll make a note for next time,” said Matheus.
The windows in the apartment buildings on either side of Apollonia’s cottage glowed, vague shadows moving inside. If Milo’s tampering worked, then all 911 calls would be blocked for the next few hours. He wanted to avoid any human involvement. They’d only end up hurt. He expected the police to show up eventually; explosions tended to attract notice. But he wanted to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.
“Have you seen Apollonia?” he asked, yelling over the chaos. Bursts of soil shot periodically into the air, clods of dirt and scorched glass raining down. He had limited the size of the pipe bombs, but perhaps the makers might have used a little too much enthusiasm.
“Not yet.” Joan’s gaze flicked past him. “Here we go!” She screamed, waving her chainsaw over her head.
Matheus froze as Joan charged forward. He closed his eyes, felt the rush of wind as Joan rushed off. He opened his eyes as the rest of Joan’s crew sprinted toward him. Chainsaws whined as they fell upon Apollonia’s followers. His teeth vibrated in his skull as gunshots split the air.
“Come on,” said Quin, dragging him toward the rear of the house.
For a second, he worried he’d forgotten how his knees worked, but then muscle memory kicked in. He staggered after Quin.
“I didn’t remind her about the woods,” Matheus said, the words crowded together to make room for the panic.
“She knows, Sunshine.”
They rounded the side of the cottage, entering into a full-scale battle zone. Craters of raw earth covered the lawn. Snow melted, patches of grass and mud appearing. Bushes burned, ranging from leaping flames to glowing coals. Screams came from all directions, peppered with echoing booms of the assault rifles. People ran, some toward the street, a few toward the burning cottage. Matheus hit the edge of a crater and stumbled. A man, red hair gleaming in the firelight, ran past. Shadowed figures came together and fell apart. Hazy outlines in the smoke, shrieks and shouts swallowed by the maelstrom. Was that flash of blond Alistair? Was Milo falling forward into flame? The whole reality, the stinking, frenetic, chaotic reality of battle came crashing down on Matheus all at once. He froze, his brain as empty as though someone had wiped it clean with Windex. Only a non-functioning urinary system kept Matheus from pissing his pants.
“Matheus!” Quin shook him.
“I can’t see anything,” Matheus said. “I can’t find her if I can’t see anything!”
“Shit.” Quin cupped his face, forcing Matheus to meet his eyes. “Sunshine, listen to me. Foc―”
A series of tiny bursts, throwing up clumps of dirt, sped toward them. Quin shoved Matheus away, throwing himself backward at the same time. He hit the ground, jarring his funny bone on a rock. Hissing curses, he rolled to his stomach and climbed onto his knees.
“Qui―” Matheus stared up into the barrel of an AK-47 assault rifle. Heat rolled off the metal. The barrel looked about how he imagined: black, metallic, terrifying. Matheus opened his mouth to scream.
Brilliant white light burst over him. Matheus knew of a few theories to explain near-death experiences, but in his case, his heavenly glow turned out to be a twenty-eight ounce LED flashlight pumping out 3000 lumens.
“What do I do?” a voice asked. “What do I do? What do I do?”
Apparently, someone knew the answer, because a wet, ripping sound broke the silence, followed by a crack, and finishing with a soft thud. He blinked. The dancing black spots faded, leaving a blurry haze behind. He groped along the ground, stopping when his fingers encountered something wet and squishy. Blinking a few more times, his vision cleared.
Oh, great, a head. He sat up, wiping his fingers in the snow. Had his life come to this, blasé about heads? Then again, his limbs had all become numb, so maybe he’d gone into shock.
“Sunshine,” said Quin. “You need to hurry up.”
Matheus let himself be pulled to his feet. He pointed.
“Head,” he said.
“Yes, love,” said Quin. “Just like the night we met.”
Matheus closed his eyes with a shudder. When he opened them, the universe continued not being a dream. The west side of the cottage collapsed. A cloud of embers, smoke, and ash rolled out, captured by the wind and sent flying.
“This is not a normal relationship.” Matheus stooped to pick up the rifle. “Quin, take the flashlight.”
The woman with the flashlight squeaked as Quin turned to her. Soot streaked her face; she trembled from head to toe. Matheus recognized her as one of the lucky few forgotten by Apollonia.
“Here,” he said, handing her the AK-47. “You’re with him.” He nodded at Quin.
The woman, probably not long out of high school, clutched the rifle like a teddy bear. Her face formed a mask of terror as Quin reached for her.
Flashlight tucked under his left arm, he adjusted the rifle, correcting her grip.
“Aim for the knees,” he said.
“Yes, s-sir.”
Quin looked at Matheus. “Be careful.”
“You too,” said Matheus. He grabbed Quin’s shirt, kissing him hard. “Don’t die, okay?” He didn’t wait for Quin’s answer, sprinting for the woods.
The battle had lost all semblance of order. The planned positions had fallen apart, both sides losing people to panic and death. Matheus tried not to look at the skirmishes, focused on reaching the woods instead. He dodged one crater, and another, before his foot landed wrong, his ankle twisting. He tripped, rolling over the rough earth and landing with a face full of dirt. Spitting, he pushed himself onto his hands and knees. He didn’t know if he preferred the taste of mud or plaster. In front of him, the trees loomed into the orange sky. Ribs screaming in protest, he rose onto his knees. A dark figure broke away from the group fighting to his right, moving closer. Matheus relaxed as he recognized Thomas.
/> Thomas’s hair swung free of its binding, matted with blood and dirt. He carried a massive crossbow, stained and battered with use. He hadn’t had the weapon when they left the movie theater, likely the spoils of war. The point of the bolt dipped as a flash of recognition crossed Thomas’s face. He loped closer, the crossbow cradled against his shoulder.
Matheus scrambled to rise, then stopped, mid-crouch, as Thomas jerked.
“Thomas,” said Matheus, frozen as Thomas tumbled forward, his eyes bulged out in the rictus of shock.
Thomas fell with no attempt to catch himself, propelled by the momentum of his jog. Limbs askew, he landed in a graceless heap. A shape appeared in the haze of smoke, sprinting toward Thomas.
Matheus darted forward, the tendons in his calves twanging. Only a ten steps until he reached Thomas, then seven, then four—
A glint of metal, flashing gold in the firelight. Dust scattered across the patchy snow, whipped up into the vortex of wind and smoke.
Matheus skidded to a halt. He stared at the spot where Thomas had lain. Only clothes remained. The old ones went like that, dust to dust, ashes to ashes. The barbed wire twisted in his gut. He’d never asked about Thomas’s past; he’d never asked him about anything.
The swordsman growled, and the barbed wire froze in place. A tingling ice crept through Matheus’s frame. He dodged; the blade whooshed in empty air. With a grunt, Matheus hit the ground, driving his shoulder into the socket. Don’t be dislocated, don’t be dislocated. He caught the flash of metal out of the corner of his eye, and rolled. The blade skimmed his back, a stinging line of fire. Matheus kicked blindly, thrusting out his foot like an irritated donkey. An oof came from above as he made contact. He leapt at the tiny window, clambering upright, aching ribs drowned in adrenaline.
He ran, scooping up the crossbow without pausing. The sound of footsteps drummed in his ears like a heartbeat. Matheus veered, coming back around. When Thomas fell, the bolts had tumbled out of the quiver, scattering across the lawn.
