Lightning tears across the sky, and Aubrey’s eyes glitter in surprise. Troy feels the earth rumble beneath them, can feel the old things stirring in their sleep. He knows this is no ordinary storm.
Aubrey’s sweep turns up nothing, the light at the end of the machine glowing a steady green. She leans against him, shoulder to shoulder. She’s his fifth partner in seven years. They’ve only been in the field for three days, but he’s got a good feeling about her. She’s certainly better than his previous partner-in-training, Colby. One glance at their manananggal surveillance team had him racing towards the toilet with his hands over his mouth; the thirteenth floor had to do a complete mind-wipe on the boy.
“So why did you sign up for the agency?” he asks her. There’s only so much the agent profile can tell you; he prefers knowing his partner in their own words. The way they tell their story tells so much about them, anyway. Reticent and shy or talkative and overbearing? He listens to the little nuances and picks them apart in his mind, attempts to piece together an idea on whether or not he’d want to have these people watching his back. He’s had a good read on Aubrey, so far. He hopes that he’s not wrong. This is the first mission they’ve gone on without a supervising agent or available backup. Not totally off the radar, no, but the agency will definitely have a difficult time providing help if they ever find themselves in a sticky situation.
“Pyrokinetics,” she says quietly. She raises a black-gloved hand, the kind with the fingers cut off. He notices dirt beneath her cuticles. There is a small whoomp! as fire emerges from a hole in her gauntlets. She takes it in her palm, scoops it up the way that one would scoop up water from a pool, and curls her fingers protectively around it, as though it was a newborn chick. “Apparently, I’m a danger to the community. My parents tried to commit me to the mental hospital. I escaped. The agency found me, took me in, and enrolled me in the open university.”
He nods, only half-listening. He tries to remember his own parents, and fails. There are only echoes in his memory. He remembers the boom of his father’s voice, the smoke that curled around his beard and the smell of tobacco clinging to his clothes and to the walls of the house. He remembers his mother and the way she sings him to sleep, her voice weaving words and melody together to form something magical. He remembers the way sunlight slanted across his narrow bed, spilling from the windowsill and drenching his blankets with light. But he doesn’t tell Aubrey any of this. All he says is: “That’s pretty rare.”
“So they said.” Aubrey shrugs. “Can’t do the big stuff though. Can’t summon the santelmo, for one. Can’t call on any kind of fire creatures. As far as the agency’s concerned, I’m literally just for firepower.”
“Better than nothing.” He flips open his soaked jacket to reveal his holster. “All I’ve got is a gun and some silver bullets.”
She laughs. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you covered, partner.” He raises any eyebrow, and she backpedals quickly. “Not that way!”
“What about you?” she asks, her voice taking on an excited tone. “I’ve heard about you, back in training. They said that you fought with a higante bare-handed. That you managed to outwit the Talakong Twins. They said that you’re the best field agent in A.G.I.M.A.T.”
He gives her a wan smile. Huh. So that’s what they say nowadays. Better than when he first started, at any rate: the whispers behind his back, the shaky smiles, the rumor mill grinding out story after story about him—that he was descended from Bathala’s line, that he could manipulate minds, that he was a spy from Sitan’s camp. None of them were able to figure out the truth. It was too common, anyway: the last survivor of a village-wide massacre. The nightmares filter through sometimes, the smell of blood magic and smoke and burning flesh. He watched his father fall; his mother dismembered and her pieces scattered around the village as a warning. No witches allowed.
He pulls himself back from the memories and turns to Aubrey. “No powers, for one,” he says, staring straight ahead. The continuing storm and absence of electric lights made everything around them stand out starkly. He tried to focus his eyes on the gloom in front of them, waiting for a sign—any sign—that they should start moving forward. Aubrey’s scanner was held loosely in her other hand.
“I saw a manannaggal once. It was on an aerial recon mission in our village—you remember Cathy, right? She retired from active service already. Anyway, I was young and I didn’t know what was happening, but I wasn’t scared. I followed her, found some members of the agency, and the rest is history.” He gives her a wan smile, wipes the rainwater off his forehead and eyes. It’s a good story, and most of it is true, anyway. “Poe saw my potential, I guess, and trained me from a very young age. The agency funded almost everything in my life—found me a place in Manila, sent me to school, taught me everything I know. And I’m grateful for that.”
Aubrey nods at all the appropriate points to show that she was listening. “Wow. I’m amazed you’ve lasted this long.”
“Lucky, I guess.”
“And your girlfriend? Does she know?”
Troy laughs at that. “I love Elsa, but sometimes she’s... not the most observant person in the world. She can be quite a handful.”
Aubrey gives him a mischeivous grin. “That’s why we call her ‘Above All Elsa’,” she says. “You know, ‘cause you put her above everything else.”
“That she is,” he says fondly. He feels his phone vibrate again. “Wait, I need to get that.”
As predicted, it’s Elsa. He slides the phone shut without bothering to look at the message. Aubrey looks at him with a quirked eyebrow. He shrugs, not saying anything. Why bother? It’s just the same thing all over again.
The rain crashes around them, lightning arcing across the sky in crooked calligraphy. The wind picks up and Aubrey curls up further into herself, trying to avoid the sharp, stinging droplets. Troy now understands what it means when people say they are soaked to the bone—he can feel the rain being absorbed through his skin, through the already-drenched cotton of his clothes, clinging to his body as though they refused to relinquish his warmth. Beside him, his partner shivers, a black ball of damp girl. He reaches over and draws her towards his side, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. Their shared warmth helps dispel the cold. Aubrey sniffles.
“Here,” he says, plucking the scanner from her damp fingers. “I’ll do this for awhile.”
“Too bad we can’t light a fire.”
“Not a good idea.”
“Admittedly, not one of my best.”
He sweeps the scanner across the entrance of the cave, the steady hum of the machine soothing his nerves. The small black instrument warms his fingers, makes the pain in his wrist dissipate momentarily. He moves it up and down the opening of the cave, the green glow pulsing steadily at the mouth of the machine.
Then, the light turns red.
Aubrey shoots up, her body ramrod straight as she sheds her discomfort. He gets up more slowly, training the scanner at the center of the tunnel. The shadows shift like storm clouds breaking and then re-forming. Above them, the sky releases a fresh batch of rain. They steadily inch forward, away from their makeshift lean-to, the rain obscuring their vision as they move away from the shelter and out in the open. Troy walks in front, one hand holding the scanner steady, the other hand tucked at his hip, fingers tracing the familiar holster of his gun. Behind him, slightly to one side, Aubrey already has her palms open, fingers spread out, eyes blinking back the rain.
The shadow in the tunnel seems to retreat slightly, gathering itself. Troy remembers snorkeling somewhere off Palawan, one summer day, a lifetime ago, and saw a school of fish moving through the ocean waters. The tides pushed them this way and that, and yet they seemed to instinctively follow a pattern, become a whole being that surrounded him, that swam around him like a multicolored whirlwind. He thinks the shadow is like that: made up of miniscule pieces that swam together, forming and re-forming into this vast, cloud-like shape that filled the entire tunnel e
ntrance.
The scanner squawked as they approached, the low hum replaced by a high-pitched whine. Troy switched it off, shoved it in his pocket, and instead spread his palm out in a gesture of peace. Blue-white lines flared up across the skin of his open palm, fine lace-like traceries that formed a familiar symbol—familiar, at least, if you were of non-human origins. The mark of A.G.I.M.A.T. “My name is Agent Montero,” he says calmly, reciting each word in a low, non-threatening tone. “This is my partner, Agent Miles.”
“Stupid codename,” mutters Aubrey behind him. He ignores her.
“We don’t want to hurt you. We are seeking an artefact that may be with you. This is a dangerous item. Please, we are asking you to give it up so that we can take it to a safe place.” The shadow croons, its sound like a hundred thousand nails scraping across a chalkboard. Aubrey flinches, but Troy keeps on speaking, his voice rising above the din of the rain. “Can you understand me? We don’t want to harm you. Once you give us the item, you’re free to go.”
The cloud—there really is no other word to describe it—visibly trembles, as though it is trying to hang on to its shape. There is no mouth, but they can hear the words coming from the creature. It sounds like rusty car wheels turning on an equally rusty axel. Hello, nameless ones.
“What is that thing?” whispers Aubrey. “I don’t remember seeing it in the manual.”
“No clue, but intel said that it has the weapon.”
Aubrey moves past him, her arms stretched out. Jets of orange flame leap out from her palms, directed towards the black cloud. Troy grabs his gun, cocks off the safety, and aims it at the cloud. He’s got six silver bullets loaded. The cloud dissipates beneath the onslaught of Aubrey’s fire. Her face has lost its softness—her brows are furrowed, her mouth set, and heat in her gaze. She refuses to give up her position; inch by inch she moves towards the cloud, her fire stopping it from forming back into its original shape and size. Steam rises around them, as the drops of water sizzle at first contact with her flames. Troy wishes he’d brought his goggles; his eyes are starting to sting, and he can barely see Aubrey’s small form in front of him. He keeps his grip on the gun tight, holds the muzzle above Aubrey’s shoulders so that he has a clean line of fire, his fingers firmly on the trigger.
You have spunk, little one. Apolaki would be proud of you, were he able to escape his bonds. The creature hisses, as though Aubrey’s fire was able to brand it. And then it begins to expand, taking in the flames as though it was nothing more than air. It rises, filling up the tunnel entrance, hovering above them like a harbinger of doom. He sees Aubrey falter, the flames stopping from her gauntlets, as she takes a step back. Troy could feel the ground tremble as the creature grew, expanding and spreading like storm clouds across the horizon. Still frightened of using your birth names, I see. Your ancestors were the same way. Names have power.
He fires a bullet into the darkness, watched the bright silver cleave through the rain and steam and pierce through the cloud. The creature’s body splits apart as the bullet cuts through, but comes back together just as quickly around the hole. He hears the bullet clatter harmlessly on the damp cement floor behind the creature, an impossibly long time after it was fired.
“Got any more ideas?” asks Aubrey, her bangs plastered across her forehead in a mix of rain and sweat.
“Can you do an incant?”
“Not magical enough. Trust me, they tried.”
He steadies his firing hand, gripping the barrel of the gun tightly to stop his wrist from trembling. He could already feel the pain coursing from his damn wrist and radiating outwards, making his arm feel as though it was wrapped in live wire. “Stand behind me while you recharge,” he says, keeping an eye on the creature as it pulses angrily. It’s now starting to seethe, like water boiling for too long, and becoming less amorphous and more like a shadow-creature. It begins to grow appendages, shadow-tentacles that whip back and forth as it attempts to reach them. It smacks against the concrete side of the tunnel with a loud crack and Troy can see chunks of concrete fly away.
“What can make you cold?” he asks Aubrey quietly. Without the rain, the sooty orange sky hangs heavy with scuttling clouds. A hush falls over the construction site, and for once, Troy could see clearly where they were. Debris from the torrential rain was swept down, to the basin of the construction site. Stacks of bricks and concrete blocks were covered by black tarp. Piles of water pipes lay horizontally beside the tunnel, and just beyond, he could see the burbling overfill of an exposed water pipe, swollen with rainwater.
“Um. Airconditioning turned down way, way low. Ice cream. Ice.” She blinks. “It’s in all the movies. Liquid nitrogen.”
“Yup.”
“Where the heck are we going to get liquid nitrogen, Troy? We can’t just call for delivery.”
“This is a construction site, there’s got to be some cans lying around. They have an exposed water pipe at the foundation. Liquid nitro is used for that sometimes, to seal it. Go look for a dewar or something like that. They look like shiny silver LPG tanks. It should be near the construction office, or even inside. They’ve got to keep it under lock and key, anyway.” Out of the corner of his eye, Troy sees the monster gathering itself, its appendages now capable of stretching out and actually grabbing them. It whips its cloud-tentacles back and forth, sending a spray of shattered concrete in their direction. Aubrey ducks, and Troy closes his eyes and turns his face. It isn’t painful, but he can feel the rain of debris pummel his arms and chest, momentarily moving his gun off-target.
“What about you?” she asks.
“I’ll keep it occupied. Hurry up.” Aubrey slips away, narrowly avoiding a tendril of darkness as it tried to sweep her off her feet; she jumps over it, knees tucked together, and lands on her feet and at a run. Troy looks back at the creature. It’s now inches away from his face, rising like a wave of blackness, hovering over him. He can hear the voice in his head: I knew your mother, nameless one. I took her soul. She tasted beautiful. And now I will take yours, too.
Terror engulfs him. Troy drops his raised arms, feels the gun slip out from fear-frozen fingers, and stares upwards, eyes wide in horror. Time crawls to a stop. He thinks for a moment that it’s simply another storm coming, and then darkness crashes over him.
“Anak, wake up.” A cool hand touched his brow.
Troy resurfaces, blinking his eyes at the bright sunlight. He knows this place—his childhood bedroom in his small room, the sunshine soaking his sheets with light. He can smell tobacco and leather, and the echo of his mother’s song. Beside him is a middle-aged lady, her hair tucked in a bun, her face warm and her smile bright. She wears a pair of dark purple plastic spectacles, and there are crow’s feet around her eyes and laugh lines decorating the corners of her lips.
She gently smooths away his hair away from his forehead and cups his cheek. “I’m sorry, anak.”
“Where are we?” Troy sits up, and his head spins.
“Inside the kulam. It’s been trying to destroy my little place for years now, but I’ve kept it at bay. Think of it as the eye of the storm.” She gives him a small smile. “It’s good that you didn’t give up your name to the kulam. That’s why you’re here, instead of being absorbed into its darkness.”
He nods. “And who are you?”
“Oh, don’t you remember me?” she asks. “Though it’s been twenty years since you saw me, so I suppose that it’s difficult to make the connection.” She shimmers and her form is replaced by a slender woman in a white cotton shift, her long braided black hair falling to her waist. He could smell roses and sampaguitas. “There. Is this better?”
“Inay?” he asks, incredulous.
She nods. He leans into her touch. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve been here all this time.”
He thinks back to the procession of distant relatives, of being passed on from family to family like an unwanted piece of luggage, of moving away from Manila, moving back to Manila, of acquir
ing the ability to put together his entire life into one bag. He feels his tears, bottled up tight for years, spilling from his eyes and coursing down his cheeks. “No you weren’t,” he manages to say from between clenched teeth.
“Oh, don’t say that.” His mother sits closer to him. He wants to hug her, to sink into her warmth, to pretend that everything that had happened in the last twenty years was nothing more than a bad dream. He tightens his hands into fists, feeling his nails dig into his palms. “I know you think we’ve abandoned you, but the truth is, we’ve been here all along.”
“Where?”
She touches him, sweeps his forehead with her thumb. “Right here. We’ve been right here all this time.”
“I saw you die.”
“You saw our bodies die. But we never really disappear from this world. We’re tied to the land, us creatures of the earth, and we can’t die. Not unless the great Lakapati herself undoes our spirit, thread by thread, unspooling the life that she wove.” She pats his cheek. “I’m sorry, anak. I wish there was a better way to save you, but your father and I knew that you’d find a way.”
“Save me from what?”
Her face becomes serious, her soft dark eyes turning to steel. “You must know about the weapon. A.G.I.M.A.T. sent you to find it, right? It must not fall into their hands. We’ve been keeping it safe all this time, waiting for you to find us and claim it as your birth right.”
“You’ve been keeping it safe here?”
“Where else to hide a weapon but in plain sight?” His mother smiles impishly. “The kulam is a powerful creature, but it’s not very bright. Or introspective. It just wants to destroy, anak.”She gives him a secret smile and reaches into the pocket of her dress. She draws out a small item, not larger than her hand. It is triangular, and gleams dully in the sunlight. Intricate carvings cover both sides of the pendant. It hangs on a rawhide string looped through the top of the pendant. A single, unblinking eye carved on the surface of the pendant stares back at him. “This is where all the anting-antings come from,” she says, placing the amulet in his hands. “The ones you see in Quiapo. I’m sure some two-bit magician saw this and tried making his own, and it’s been passed down. None of those have any kind of power. But this—” and she curves Troy’s fingers around the pendant, “—is the real one, the only one that can protect you.
OUTPOURING: Typhoon Yolanda Relief Anthology Page 36
