At The Hands Of Madness

by Kevin Holton

  She turned, listening to something, and turned back. “The monster. Kaiju. Medraka. It uses… a psychic field. A protective armor. That’s why it can’t be hurt. Attacking it with something charged by psychic powers lets the attack slip past.”

  Steve nodded quietly. We had no idea what Damien used to make his mech’s death ray, so until we found schematics—or, if we got lucky, maybe Lisa knew—there was no point in sharing that he’d briefly hurt it. Although ‘hurt’ might not be as accurate as ‘annoyed.’

  “Hold on: you’re sayin’ you got the same weirdo powers as that motherfucker?” said a different team leader, bald with a goatee and a tattoo that said ‘Jane’ running along his neck. His hand moved to a gun on his hip. “What, you its daughter or something?”

  She backed away, head turning as she listened to other voices, but tried speaking to him. “No, it’s not—it’s not like—I have bionics—implants—I’m human—I…”

  “…She’s trying to help you is what she is.” Steve stepped between them. “She found a way to hurt that bastard, and you want to shoot her?”

  “At our fallen brother’s funeral, no less.” I moved to his side.

  The idiot snorted. “Don’t trust nothin’ that’s got a power don’t make sense to me. You sayin’ she can hurt it ‘cause she’s got psycho crap like it does? Makes me think she and it got a lot in common. Maybe they both monsters.”

  Grover walked over, holding a cup of coffee, as murmurs started up from behind us. I could feel a thousand eyes on my back, but only one gaze mattered right now: mine, keeping this moron in my sights. “What’s going on here?”

  “This guy wants to kill Allessandra because he doesn’t understand the difference between a human with bionic implants, and a hundred-foot-tall Kaiju that can rip open portals to other dimensions.”

  “He wants to kill the one person we know for sure can hurt it?” Grover turned to the bald leader, who still had a hand on his gun. “What’s wrong with you?”

  The guy scowled, looking at the other militia leaders for support. “Don’t tell me you trust that crazy chick. Look at her, twitchin’ and talkin’ nonsense, how do you know she ain’t hearin’ the kay-joos voice? Back where I come from, all that witchcraft bullshit got capital punishment, straight out, no need for a trial or nothin’. We oughta bring back burnin’ em at the stake. Someone starts stepping outta line, you send the Devil back to Hell, and let God sort out the rest.”

  Word choice is important in any debate. Dealing with Grover made word choice extremely important. “Really? Hold that thought.” He turned to Steve and handed over the coffee. “Brought this over for you.”

  “Thanks!” Steve said with a toothy smile, happy to take it and sit back to watch events unfold.

  “Anytime,” Grover said, giving a half-smile before turning to the loudmouth leader, face falling back to serious. “Now then: you think, if someone’s even a little out of line, they should be killed by…” He snapped his fingers, twirling his hand in the air as if he could catch the right word. “What was it again?”

  The first leader, with the beard, caught on. “Uh, Mitch, I think this is some kinda trap. Don’t know how, but maybe you should, uh, not answer.”

  “Fuck off back to Chicago, Doug,” the bald one spat, turning back to Grover. “I said, they should be burned alive.”

  Grover looked at us with a twisted smirk, then, to Mitch, said, “Okay, if you insist.” He raised an arm as fire burst to life around it, starting near his shoulder and spinning like a vortex toward his outstretched palm. Mitch stumbled, raised his hands against the heat, then almost went for his gun. “Oh, don’t bother. I’d melt the bullet long before it hit any of us, then I’d melt the gun, then I’d start on you.”

  All the militia crew backed away. We stood our ground, while Steve sipped at his coffee as loudly as he could manage.

  “Like you said, Mitch: let God sort ‘em out. Think that rule doesn’t apply to you? ‘Cuz when it comes to executions, I’m the best firing squad there is.”

  Mitch raised his shaking hands, palms out in surrender. “I-I-I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re scared, and every sinner repents at the Gates of Hell. Well, as far as you should be concerned, you’re already there, and these fires? They’re mine. You know what that makes me?”

  He got no response beyond a whimper and a slight nod. Our crew had fallen silent, knowing better than to interrupt. The other militias followed suit.

  “You know, I don’t have a lot of friends. I’ve got one less after today. So when someone tells me they intend to kill one more of those friends just because he doesn’t like her, well, that gets me a little heated. Makes me think, should I set you alight and watch you burn?” He formed a fireball in his palm, then banished it. “Or maybe make it quick, send one quick bolt through your thick skull so your excuse for a brain melts?” He curled his hand into a finger gun, one ‘bullet’ charged at his extended index finger’s tip.

  I briefly wondered if it was bad to teach him the whole ‘precision’ lesson.

  “Then again, I could always do things the really hard way and just beat you to death while on fire.” Grover was fully ignited, flames encircling his whole body. “Wouldn’t that be fun, Mitch? You getting third degree burns while I break every bone I can get my hands on?”

  It was late, and Grover’s sudden brightness against night’s darkness made it hard to see. Still, over the scent of scorched earth, I smelled fresh urine.

  “I’m pretty easy going, but I hear I’m a bit of a hothead once I get riled up. Do you agree, Mitch, or do you think my anger here is, maybe, just a teensy little bit justified?”

  Mitch whimpered again before mumbling, “J-j-justified?”

  “That’s right! You’re smarter than you look. But I’m going to do you a favor you don’t deserve. I’m not going to kill you.” The flames vanished. “Because like I said: I lost a friend today. We all did,” he said, waving his arm at us, “and we lost a good friend, at that. So I think about how hurt your crew would be if they lost you, and I gotta think, even if you’re a big, dumb asshole, you probably treat your own well enough. Maybe you deserve to get your head beaten in, maybe you don’t, but I know they don’t need to go setting up for your funeral, too.”

  He stood upright, stepping back. “You fought alongside us, and we appreciate that you came to pay your respects. Now we’d appreciate if you left.”

  Falling backwards, Mitch got to his feet, mumbled an apology, and left. The other leaders looked at Grover, who looked back and gave a nonchalant shrug, a ‘just another day’ gesture, so they looked over at the rest of us. I shrugged too, looking at Allessandra, who’d drawn her hands in close to her body, face wracked with guilt.

  Steve took another inhumanly loud sip. “Damn good coffee.”

  “Thanks!” Grover said. “Reminds me, I forgot to pour myself a cup. You folks want any?” he added, pointing at Doug’s crew. A few followed him over to the coffee table.

  “Amazing that coffee survived Medraka and a small nuclear war.”

  “A miracle, really. Could you imagine fighting this thing with no coffee?”

  “I know at least three people who’d just let Medraka kill them.”

  “Only three?” Steve snorted.

  “Maybe four.” I turned to Allessandra, who looked around, trying to find a place in this crowd where she might belong. “You okay?”

  She edged a little closer to me. “If only we could count on the unconscious to spread what we’ve learned, to tell those who don’t understand people like me how they might best fight for our kind. But I suppose some ants will always work against the hive.”

  Still running on that queen metaphor, it seemed. Allessandra didn’t drink coffee, so I didn’t bother offering her a cup, but she did accompany me to the coffee table, where Grover and Steve were talking about heading into the city proper in the morning to pick up something to celebrate with the next evening. Mari wasn’t sure
if that was the best idea, but they replied, in pretty much the same words, and pretty much unison, “If we don’t honor today with scotch and steak, then what the fuck are we out here for?”

  I knew better than to think they were treating this like a game, but their attitude did sometimes wear on the others. It wasn’t a matter of not taking things seriously. They always found hope, a silver lining, something worth cheering over. Most of us out here lost that optimism long ago. For me, I’d been a cynic long before my son died, but when he and the rest of Shadow Fox were wiped out, he took any hope I had of making a better world down into the grave with him. It’s hard to stay positive when you outlive your only son.

  Seeing the others, I knew they all had the same thing on their mind: Loss. Mari’s husband, Lisa’s arm, the recruits who were slain just one day earlier, whatever it was, there were enough losses to go around. Damien may have been the leader, but without a smile or a joke every now and again, even the closest company falls apart. I wanted to smack both of those boys upside the head for laughing and talking about food at a funeral, but if not now, when?

  Things needed to stay normal. Or, they at least needed to try to stay that way. I let them carry on. Wasn’t my place to stop them, anyway.

  “We hurt it,” I said, mostly to no one. “If we hurt it, we can kill it.”

  “Our species thrives on violence,” Allessandra said, eyes unfocused. “We won’t kill it because we have to. We’ll kill it simply because we can, just as we bombed Japan, just as we killed Caesar. One threat replaces another, ad nauseum.”

  I didn’t want to pry, but she was really worrying me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Her eyes refocused. “Sorry. I’m weird tonight. Just… tired. And sad. Weary, I guess.”

  I opened my arms, and she welcomed a hug. It wasn’t much, but I couldn’t do much else. “Things will work out, someday. And there are so many who are safe from our efforts. People all over the world who’ve kept the Phranna at bay, and distracted Medraka from larger cities. There are people who have never seen it, except on the news. I bet some forget it exists entirely. That’s all thanks to us.”

  “We are fodder for an insensate god, in whose two hearts reside neither justice nor mercy.”

  That would’ve been the absolute wrong time to end our hug, but god in heaven, did her words give me goosebumps. “If we do kill it, you’ll have a great career as a horror writer.”

  “Because I have a head full of ghosts?” she said, head on my shoulder, mouth turned away from me.

  “Because… you have an interesting way of seeing the world. It’s… honest. More honest than most are willing to be. Because yes, that’s all we’ve been, up until today. Fodder. Very brave, useful fodder, but still. People throw themselves at the opportunity to fight it, knowing that they’ll lose.”

  “The sirens’ song was nothing compared to the allure of fame and glory.”

  “Yeah, that. What you said.” We both laughed a little. In a time like this, we had to laugh. It’s why no one ever scolded Steve or Grover for their juvenile ways.

  Those around us began quieting, and for one brief, horrifying moment, I thought everyone was staring at us, ready to mock a public display of affection, no matter how innocent. Then as we let go, I caught sight of Grover standing by Damien’s body, hand in the air, alight to draw attention. “Everyone!” he called, and the last murmurs fell away. “We are gathered tonight to pay tribute to the deceased leader of the Hyperion company’s leader, Damien Gearheart. Whether that last name is fake or not, he was a real and true hero, who used his stoic nature and mechanical expertise to defend his city and his people from all these damn monsters. He gave his life to ensure others could live. And now, our company’s ordained minister, Steve Salazar, will give a few words. It’s not ideal that his ordination is with The Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, but it’s the best we’ve got.”

  Steve stepped up by his friend’s side. “Thank you, Grover McAllister. Those of you that don’t know him will probably look at Damien and think, ‘I’m so glad I’m not him.’ His death, while literally and metaphorically metal as fuck, was undoubtedly painful. He spent his life aiming for the opposite. Not a day went by where he didn’t spend every hour making other peoples’ lives better. Whether that was helping a new member of our crew acclimate to life in a militia, building a killing machine to keep real people out of the field, or trying to coordinate attacks that would keep the people of Great Bend safe, I can honestly say, all joking aside, that a lot of people would be a lot worse off had he never stepped up to lead this group. So, while he was never really one for conversation, his legacy will echo for years to come.”

  The crowd nodded, whispered quietly, and gave other varying signs of approval. Raising his voice to carry over the others, Grover stepped back in front. “Damien had always been very concerned about health and hygiene, understandably, and often voiced that he would prefer cremation, to save others the trouble of digging a grave. Hyperion generally cremates all its fallen, and even had he not specified his preferred arrangements, he would never have wanted a fate different from his troops. As you can probably guess, I’ll be attending to those final duties. Is there anyone else who would like to speak, or say a final goodbye, prior to me, you know, incinerating him?”

  Our core crew had all said goodbyes while people were milling about, talking amongst themselves. Damien used to always say, Do what needs to be done as soon as you can do it. Otherwise, it’ll be too late. Paying last respects was just another duty to be completed ASAP, because we didn’t want to hold up these last respects.

  “May I say goodbye?” called a slightly eerie, cool voice from behind us. We turned around, crowd parting, to see a fairly large number of Nanites at the back, easily at least fifty, waiting quietly. One in particular spoke, her gray skin flickering like hot copper in the light from the torches. Her dark hair pulled back, spiraling into a single waist-length braid. She seemed a little more individual than the others we’d met recently, choosing to dress in a black, flowing gown that suited the circumstances.

  “It’s the queen!” Allessandra swatted my arm to get my attention, as if her voice in my ear wouldn’t have done the trick.

  “We’re really focusing on friends and family right now. Could you clarify how you knew him?” Steve pointed his thumb toward Damien.

  “I’m his wife.” She said this without anger or indignation, retaining her composure.

  Well, shit, it really is the queen, I thought. Allessandra gave me her best ‘I told you so’ face, which was pretty bad, since she rarely used it.

  Steve and Grover looked at each, then nodded. “Shit, yeah, that counts. Come on up.” Grover waved his flaming hand.

  The ‘Queen’ of the Nanites, if such a title existed, stepped forward, not seeming to notice the rest of the crowd. She wasn’t as tall as Lisa, but still imposing, with sharp features that, in the right situation, were probably sharp, given her nanobot swarm physiology. Damien’s impalement suspended him high enough that his head was roughly level with hers. She shut her eyes, head bowed, a hand over her heart. After a moment of silence, she kissed two fingers of her right hand, touched them to his forehead. “I’m sorry we couldn’t make peace earlier. I hope you’ve found peace now.”

  Tiny hissing drew my attention to Grover who was wiping faint wisps of steam from his eyes. When she stepped away, he cleared his throat, wiping at his eyes. “Is there anyone else who has something to say?”

  The Queen backed into the crowd, settling close by Allessandra and I, rather than returning to her group. No one spoke. Steve added, “Are we all sure? This is…” He looked at Damien. “This is it, you know. The real last chance.”

  When, again, no one objected, he nodded to Grover. “Okay then,” Grover said. “With all said and done, we now say a collective, final goodbye to our friend and brother-in-arms. Damien, it was… an honor.”

  Aiming his hand at the earth beneath Damien’s body, Grover lit
a fire, guiding that pillar of heat up to consume our ally. The metal beams glowed white-hot, skin searing loudly, but only for an instant. Skin, bone, even metal started to melt, the steel drooping and dripping, pooling on the ground, while little black flecks of what used to be Damien floated away into the night. The pillar shone a radiant white, as pure a flame as there could ever be. Then, there was nothing. Just scorched earth beneath a pool of metal, and ashes carried off on the wind.

  Chapter 8

  We returned to camp, bouncing along the ravaged earth, scorched black from earlier, when Grover cleaned up the mess we’d made of the Phranna. The Nanites followed us back. Both of our groups had unfinished business, and given Medraka’s wounded, but likely infuriated, state, we weren’t wasting any time. If we didn’t make our arrangements now, we’d never get the chance. We had no idea if or when it’d return.

  Not long after our arrival, we were sitting around another campfire. The only body in this one was Grover’s, and even he wasn’t ‘in’ the fire, per se, just sitting on the low wall around it. Given the circumstances, it was a ‘fend for yourselves’ night, and he’d lit fires throughout the camp so everyone could cook their own food without crowding us.

  “Okay, hold on,” Steve said. “I think I speak for everyone when I ask, what the hell?”

  Akila, the Nanite, Damian’s wife, looked over at him. “Did he not tell you he was married?” When most of us looked away, falling into a tense, awkward silence, realization passed over her steely face. “Oh. I see. He told you I was dead.”

  The other Nanites were, with the core group’s permission, talking to others throughout the camp and looking over our stations. Lisa had stepped off to secure Damien’s blueprints, which were really the only things any of us considered secret or worth protecting, on the off-chance they were out to kill us. Seemed pretty unlikely though, given our common enemy.

  “Yeah, don’t take this the wrong way, but he’s been saying for a while that you and his daughter were both, you know, on the other side,” Grover said sleepily. Elbows against his knees, he had his palms together, cooking a steak between his hands.