Wanderers of the Silent Season (Heartbeat of the World Book 2)

by T. Wyse

  The lazy singing flitted through the windows. “All in here, all together.” The creature hummed far below.

  “Got bad news for you. I think you’re trapped in here with us now too. I think it just let you in.” The voice projected towards the window, a gentle tapping and scraping that added to the song. Kechua squinted at the window, the faintest trace of light remaining, which confirmed the sight of one of the spiked, blooming mouths of the earthen creature.

  “Don’t look,” Tyran hissed. “At least you see it.” The man’s voice trembled a little. “You can hear it too, right?”

  The scraping traced over the window gently, like a disinterested violinist consuming a moment of boredom.

  “Yes, I can hear it. I saw it too, earlier.” Kechua felt at the healing cuts on his sleeping legs.

  “You got away from it? How?” The shuffling of cloth again. “Did you see the other things?” the voice shifted. “How did you survive the nights?”

  “I fought it,” Kechua mumbled, the latter two questions rolling in his skull.

  “Fought it, just like that.” Tyran chuckled. “Lost six people so far here.” His voice trembled, rustling in his spot. “Just like that. You seen the other things?”

  “Traces, maybe. What have you seen?” Kechua asked, taking some water, but unsure of taking food.

  “Lots of things, lots of things.” Tyran sighed. “Crows sometimes, and dogs at night. Nothing that’s stayed around like that . . . thing,” he bit. “But they all feel just as wrong. Best not to look at them if you can.”

  “There’s more, but I just don’t want to think about the other stuff. Just stay down. It usually loses interest after a bit. I’ve never seen it climb up or even go into the school; never seen the dogs inside either, but better safe up here.” The sonorous voice faded quickly, the words staggering. “Sleep or don’t, I don’t care. Just be quiet,” he whispered.

  ***

  The forest rose around him and faded into foggy illusions of dreams. He felt himself back in the house with Anah, golden-red light pouring in through the unsure boards of the walls. She spoke, but he couldn’t make out the words. She touched him, but he couldn’t feel it despite needing it so, and she cast only a black silhouette against the blazing light glaring into his face.

  Still, he knew her by her heartbeat, by her ticks; by the trembling of nervous laughter punctuating the unheard declarations. Grass peeped through the cracks in some farcical streaming rush of time, and flowers bloomed between them. The house rotted away, the roof yawned open, and they were alone under the false sun.

  His eyes shot open to the humming blue light casting an indirect glow upon the sand outside the window, the open sky of the new day filling the diamond thatching with blue. “No time to rest,” her voice whispered, punctuating with a gentle chuckle that burned his cheek with a warm kiss.

  He rose into the bitter chill of the real world without eating, without drinking, the staff his only companion. Tyran groaned as he slept, not quite snoring, but a wide open-mouthed breath.

  Kechua nudged the tables, and with a joking motion for silence, he enlisted the staff’s help in prying them loose. It seemed quite happy to oblige and trembled gently, in synch with him, sliding the barriers free with perfect subtlety.

  Kechua paused again, finding the roar of memory below dulled enough that he could tune it out. He held his own breath and reached out to gently probe at the man’s breathing. Truly asleep, the man’s pulsing heartbeat sang softly. He hoped the dream world treated him well as he slipped out the door, guiding it to a silent close.

  The morning peered into the hallway with enough sleepy curiosity to highlight a few of the edges and paint the texture of the bricks on the walls. A bulletin board full of advertisements, with varying levels of gapped-teeth phone number slips, lay crowded across its facing. A pair of posters with photocopied images and illegible text followed as he slipped down the hallway.

  He compressed to the ground, opening his jaw wide to keep his breaths silent and long. Slipping on all fours like some crippled lizard, he slid himself in the same space Tyran had appeared the day before and peered down, his nose mashed against the floor, not daring to chance more than that.

  No ruffled grey hide presented itself anywhere, nor did he feel the burning of those red eyes. He freed his nose and focused his perception downward, fighting the roaring memory below to find any trace of new clacking claws on the floor. Nothing new today, as best he could tell. His eyes felt around the rubble below, peering into the layers, each a plateau of a wrecked room.

  As his brain came dangerously close to slipping into relief, the vision presented itself. Hidden almost perfectly within a grey set of loose rubble, towards the wall where he had first breached the place, lay his adversary. The grey hide clung to the bricks, sticking like octopus tentacles, and absorbing its hue. Kechua would have missed it if not for the breath; if not for the rhythm of the rising and falling creature’s jagged spine.

  The urge to ambush the creature immediately fell into guilt. Yet this creature was no wolf, attacked without provocation; deserved no honor or respect.

  He slithered down, hanging on the ledges, and slipped down each level onto a near roll to stifle the sound. The staff obligingly made no taunting clattering, only giving the most diluted ‘tunk’ when it grazed the floor.

  He slipped into the classroom just above where the creature slept and went prone, peering down at it. The rhythmic breathing continued, but the interference of the school drowned out any subtle hints to the beast’s heartbeat or minute movements.

  Unsuspecting. He stifled a chuckle and dared to rise to a kneel. There was something to be said for this approach.

  He rolled the staff from hand to hand, remembering its weight and feeling the etchings tickle his hands as it trembled like some excited baby at playtime. He stilled it in each hand, feeling it flow like soft sand pouring back and forth, his rested arms waking and making it feel lighter with each toss.

  He backed up, his legs oiled and alive, smooth skin caressed by pale orange light through the pinprick gashes in his pants. His feet sprang to life, propelling him into the air, the sun peeking over the horizon and baptizing the world in orange.

  The great wolf turned, leaping with an unearthly agility and speed, as if to snatch him like a bird swooping down. The sleeping pose had been a ruse, of course. Kechua smiled as he descended in that hovering moment of time.

  Though not fully expecting it, he had moved with preparation. The staff struck out alongside him, thrusting the weight of the jump onto the creature’s nose.

  To Kechua’s first true delight of the season, a look of shock sparked on the beast’s face as their momentums cracked in the air. They hovered there for the briefest moment, Wolf’s fur bristling forward with the stopping force. Kechua’s momentum guided him over the creature, and he landed as deftly as he could upon the half wall behind.

  Without pausing, he leapt directly at the ground, sliding under the creature’s belly and leveraging the staff to force Wolf’s leg back.

  The beast turned like a wounded whale, and the carvings bit at Kechua’s hands with more force than he had braced for, sending the staff clattering down the stubby remains of the hallway beyond. His legs hummed from strain at his attempt to stop the turning beast, but he managed to scramble over the wall and make a sliding retrieval of the staff. He raised it in time to whack Wolf as he leapt in a snarling pile over the wall’s height. Kechua struck again, only landing a blow at its side. He followed it with a strike at its head, forcing the creature to the ground, the staff against its great neck.

  “I submit,” Wolf growled with rage, bowing on his twisted leg.

  “Fine.” Kechua accepted the submission. “I think I want to try t—” He was cut off. He had lessened his hold on the staff against the body, and Wolf was upon him.

  The trembling staff flew from his hands, flying above the pair, swallowed into one of the dark maws above. The beast lowered its ja
w, tongue lapping out within the jagged white frame. Only one act was worthy of respect: victory.

  His hand moved on its own, whatever lingering morays banished. It returned with a brick, striking with a startling rage and ferocity against the creature’s folded ear. He repeated the action over again, folding the loose skin around the bones inward, splintering and cracking. Hardly enough to kill, but enough that the beast shivered and staggered, the jaw snapped shut.

  Kechua swiveled onto the creature’s back, losing the stone in the process. Both his hands locked on the creature’s fur, and his legs coiled around its middle. Wolf snapped and snarled, but with its leg twisted, he couldn’t buck the flea from his back. Yet Kechua could only hold on, hoping for an opening to the stalemate.

  “Catch!” The staff flew back at him like a shivering javelin. Allowing himself to shed his grip, he caught the staff in one hand and jammed it hard in Wolf’s snarling bite. He met the other side and pulled hard, twisting and rending without allowing himself a breath to relax.

  The creature slumped down with a shiver and sigh, and for a moment, the fires within it cooled.

  His own drumbeat threatened to explode from its circle, so crazed and exhausted Kechua barely held onto his mind. It was all he could do to stop his heart from tearing out of his chest; to calm the adrenaline flowing within him. He looked through pounding red vision, desperate to see his benefactor.

  It was Tyran, standing in full light, looking down on him with an imperceptible expression.

  “Fought it, just like that. Bigger than the night dogs too.” Tyran chuckled, descending with a practiced deftness, not even using his hands to steady himself. “I guess that qualifies you as a ‘doer.’” He landed softly at Kechua’s side, though he stayed back from the body of the creature. He held two bottles and raised them like champagne, amber liquid shining within.

  “Here.” Tyran held one of them out, a simplified apple on the label.

  “No, please, I have my own.” Kechua slid off the grey bulk and propped himself to stand with the staff, finding the bottle insistently pointed at him. Kechua let it fall into his hand, admiring the label’s declaration of being one hundred percent pure, and the lack of the COT brand anywhere.

  “It means something to me. Just go with it.” The man opened his bottle and stared at Kechua expectantly. “Share a drink with me.”

  He cracked the bottle and inhaled the sweet and pale aroma. “I think I haven’t had actual juice since I was six?” He sniffed deeply again.

  “Well then, cheers to that.” Tyran raised his bottle, glowing with the new sun. They clanked them together and drank.

  Kechua’s heart flurried and stilled, the nectar leaving a sticky and somewhat bitter aftertaste. Lukewarm as it was, it cooled his cheeks.

  “Shame though. Thought you might be fighting that thing.” Tyran glanced towards the lower wall before taking another gulp. “No such luck.”

  “Day’s still young.” Kechua grinned, taking a few further gulps. The man kept a healthy distance from Wolf’s body, but he seemed more intent on watching the shadows of the hallway and the sands outside.

  “You don’t seem concerned or surprised.” Kechua looked towards Wolf, laying limp on his side.

  “That one’s dealt with, whatever it was. Other things to worry about.” Tyran shrugged. “That’s not even close to the oddest thing I’ve seen the past three days. Indian brave fighting a demon wolf. That’s almost boring.” He threw his hands up in mock frustration.

  “What worse have you seen? You mentioned dogs . . . ”

  “Later, not now. Don’t feel like it now. Stuff needs doing, and I could use those hands of yours. It’s calmest fresh in the morning. Best time to get things done.” Tyran passed his empty glass bottle to Kechua and climbed a level, only to return with four sets of plastic bags.

  The man’s rhythm snapped into place, the clear pulsing blip a wonderful oasis of clarity drawing Kechua in. “Sure.” Kechua smiled, fastening the staff to his back, and grabbed a bag in each hand. A mixture of tinkling glass and drumming plastic joyously called out from each.

  “So, where were you when it happened exactly?” Tyran led him through the ruined hallway. His heavy and lonely footfalls stomped and cut clearing pools within the rushing river of noise.

  “When what happened?” The cave’s shadows swallowed them in, but the light allowed the walls to give a slight glow. The polished floor was a shining line to guide them through.

  “Big red wall, sort of. I don’t know. Was red anyways.” Tyran’s silhouette stopped, glancing back. “Guess not. Some of us missed it. Not sure who’s luckier though. One way or another, it was a once in a lifetime thing.” The dark chuckle echoed in the hall. “Did you see the people at least? The way they were?”

  “No, I was alone,” Kechua answered, not sure if he was glad to be hiding his circumstances or not. The man seemed happy to have a sympathetic ear.

  “Was a bit into evening class. Couldn’t even tell you what time it happened. In the middle of the lecture, everyone just stopped and stood up all at once, like they were playing some prank or something. Only the teacher stopped mid-sentence and went with them.” The man paused, shaking his head in apparent disbelief. “I followed them. Funny how that works. Felt wrong to just stay inside. Figured there was a reason for it, I guess.”

  “They walked outside, not through the emergency exits or anything, just walking outside like they were done. No panic, no nothing. They didn’t even talk when I asked what was going on.”

  “It was bad, scary, like they were possessed or zombies. Something, who knows.” He sighed, reaching the square halos of doors etched in light at the end of the hallway. He fumbled around with a swinging bar handle, swearing when his knuckles rapped against it and it clanged back into place. “I went back inside after that. Just went back inside and watched them from the window. They were in the courtyard, opposite way you came. All just standing there, completely silent; completely blank, but not in any order or anything. I really didn’t know what was happening.”

  He turned his attention to the doors facing them and swung them open with a grandiose revelation. The light poured into the hallway and singed Kechua’s eyes. “It was light; a wall of red. It came like that, just like this light, and just as silently.” Tyran gave a slow nod, ushering Kechua through the door. “It just took everything, swept it all up, just . . . dust.” He stumbled on the words. “It left things like they are now. Mostly like they are now,” he added darkly.

  They stepped into a rounded cafeteria, which was lit like a greenhouse, the curved exterior resembling a bird’s cage keeping the windows framed. The smell of stale oil wafted about the place, and the clinging linger of stilled heat remained trapped inside.

  Round tables dotted a pair of levels, all of them in various states of disarray, a near majority either set and in mid meal or with careless leavings remaining. Encircled by the round balcony above, a fountain sat gurgling in the middle. Water inexplicably flowed upwards through its veins, though it sputtered and coughed and caked the blue tiles in dirt. A halo of bottles, filled with reasonably clear liquid, sat on the edge of the fountain, a varying layer of silt settling at the bottoms.

  “Still working, good news,” Tyran muttered, heading to the edge. “Help me collect what’s here.”

  Kechua sat beside the man, dipping the empty bottles in, capping them, and placing them on the ridge.

  “I checked everywhere after that, ran through the halls; checked all the floors. All of it empty until I came here. Some were here. Found a few in the library too. That’s the other end of the building.” He gave a head bob back the way they’d come. “People were panicking, but it was weird, it wasn’t crazy like you’d expect. People were checking stuff, no power no phone service or anything, but it’s not like anyone’s breaking down screaming.”

  “About the same flow as before, looks like. Six bottles there?” He motioned at Kechua’s crowd. “Should be about six more bef
ore it’s just too much of a pain to get. I don’t like being in here long. Feels too open with the windows.”

  They both scooped the remaining water from the fountain, having to resort to ushering water into the bottlenecks by hand and pouring them into the other waiting containers.

  “Good enough. Make sure the caps are on and load the bags up with twelve. Drop ‘em over there.”

  Kechua lessened his packed load and followed the man through the waiting tables, terrified of breaking some sleeping spell upon them by the lightest touch.

  “Heck, at first everyone was a doer; everyone was ready to pitch in. Nobody broke down, nobody cut and run; nobody just curled up and screamed.” He let a deep chuckle. “I guess we all felt like we kept doing things and it’d keep our minds distracted. Panic wasn’t going to help.” He lifted the kitchen counter and slipped behind. Kechua didn’t follow the intrusion.

  “Fridge stuff’s not trustworthy anymore, and the freezer’s already a wash.” Tyran sighed. “God, if we could only get out there to get these potatoes in the ground, that might help. Of course, would need more hands for that, even if those things weren’t out there.” He sighed.

  “Come on,” the man urged. “Take your pick. Straight water and whatever I feel like grabbing are for the shut-ins. For you, my friend, our larder is open.” He made a grandiose ushering wave towards the darkened space.

  “I have food. I’m fine.”

  “No, no, something. Take something. Take it while it’s still here. May not be here tomorrow. That big chunk out of the midsection was here at first. Can’t count on anything.”

  Kechua glanced, squinting at the darkness. The cooler of carbonated drinks sat on the counter nearby, and he opened it, peering in. The stink of moldering plastic and the light chemicals of coolant clung to every bottle within, but he grabbed one of the few novel drinks.