by VK Fox
“Thank you, Michael.” Ian’s voice was low and halting.
Dahl forced a grin. “Of course.”
Blue stooped, one gloved hand firmly braced against Jane’s belly as the other carved a smile incision over smooth skin. There was very little blood: a few dark dribbles while pale flesh and fat parted beneath the quick, short strokes of Blue’s scalpel. Her fingers curled around the flesh edges, pulling the abdominal curtain back to create a deep wound: a trench into the body. “Clamps.”
Dahl scanned the jumble of medical instruments mounded on a stainless-steel mess tray. The first item he offered was rejected. “No, the ones that look like scissor-tweezers.” Once in hand, Blue clipped them onto the darker solid barrier of what must be the inner abdominal wall, creating a ridge of stretched tissue separated by tension from the smooth expanse. Blood was slowly pooling. Everest was right, he would have passed out.
“Are you alright, Ian?” Everest’s voice was steady enough. Dahl darted a glance to his dad’s tear-streaked face and quaking shoulders.
“Jane wanted music,” His voice was small for such a big man. “At the birth.”
Everest reached out hesitantly and gave Ian a light touch on the arm. He began humming, calm and steady: “Amazing Grace.” Dahl didn’t know it other than the first stanza, but Blue joined in. Ian picked it up a few notes later, a rumbling bass joining the other voices. The music swelled as Blue made a second incision, scalpel slicing the stretched ridge held out from the body, revealing the uterine wall underneath.
“Stretchers.” Blue held the flesh apart with her curled fingers while Dahl scanned the mess of stainless steel. After a few heartbeats she added, “They look like spatula hooks.” Dahl seized the implements and slotted them into the incision, freeing Blue’s hands for more work once the implements held everything in place. She worked by micro incisions, parting infinitesimally small amounts of tissue with each stroke—more thinning it than slicing until the last buttery, delicate section parted and Dahl could see a full head of dark, wet hair.
“Oh my God, Dad… I see a baby. We’re almost done.” Dahl’s voice was out of body, he was fuzzy and light. Everest stood and went to wash his hands again and grab clean towels from where they had been warming in the oven. He laid them in a bassinet next to Ian. The tune swelled and Dahl joined in. The melody was simple enough, weaving between them like a spell.
“Get the bulb syringe.” Blue reached in with both hands, levering an infant through the bloody surgical gap. The baby’s tiny arms splayed in a startle reaction, her squashy face red streaked gray. Blue laid her on the drape and suctioned out her nose and mouth while her legs stayed bundled against her and her arm jerked wide. An instant later a very loud, very young cry cut through the music. A tiny, messy person balled her little fists and screamed in the most shockingly gorgeous way. Dahl fumbled with a plastic clamp over the umbilical cord, snipping it while Everest wrapped her in a towel and she was delivered into Ian’s waiting hands.
“Still need you, Dahl.” Blue was bending over Jane, and Dahl refocused. With some awkward repositioning, a second head appeared. Less hair, gray face, and a tangle of fleshy cord that Blue was carefully manipulating bound around a delicate neck. “I can’t get it. There’s no slack.” Blue whispered underneath Ian’s happy coos.
Dahl stooped next to her. “The cord is tangled?”
“Yeah, like a friggin gordian knot.” Blue let out a shaky breath. “I can’t see what I’m doing, and I can’t get enough out to cut it either.”
Dahl looked at the wet, red mess. How could anyone tell? His golem hand twitched. “Give me the scissors and move.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Look, if the baby gets a cut, Jane can fix that. She can’t fix suffocation. Give me the scissors if you can’t make sense of it—I’ll have a go.”
Blue’s lip trembled as she handed over the bloody implement. “Good luck.”
Dahl clenched his jaw and felt along the warm, damp tissue. By touch, the umbilical cord was the same as surgical incisions and was the same as baby skin. No luck there. Don’t overthink it. He switched the scissors to his butterfly hand and closed his eyes.
The sensations through his resin hand didn’t make much sense, but his fingers worked small, careful movements of their own power. Sureness, tension, action, release, repeat. After two more iterations, the cord slacked. Baby shoulders eased through the incision into the open air. An instant later Blue gasped with a “Whew!” and Dahl opened his eyes to find a second little person entering the room. Dahl unwrapped the remaining umbilical length from her shoulders and clamped it to a short nub.
Blue was suctioning and rubbing her all over with a towel. Baby girl, quiet and still for three endless heartbeats before she stirred under the friction of Blue’s hands and a second lusty cry filled the air. Dahl could move again, even though his knees were like melting butter and he needed several shots of vodka and a cigarette.
Blue spared him a glance, eyebrows knitting, “I’ve got the placenta and stitching. Go sit. I’ll shout if I need you.” He was stumbling back to the sink when huge arms pulled him into an embrace.
“Thank you, Son.” Ian was all around him, kissing his hair and holding him with suffocating affection. “I’m so grateful for you. Thank you.”
Dahl couldn’t answer past the lump in his throat and the t-shirt in his face, so he sagged against Ian for a few minutes before finding his footing again. Ian released him and kissed him one more time on the cheek with shining eyes. Jane looked peaceful under a pile of warmed towels, little girls wrapped in swaddling blankets in the bassinet beside her. Blue chattered about finishing up and getting them settled for the night.
Dahl washed and walked outside into the snow and ethereal silence. The door opened as he lit up, and Everest fell in beside him against the concrete wall. They shared the cigarette and body warmth, huddling against each other as cold crystalized the moment into something sharp and real and all-consuming: life. Inside the building one of the babies yelled again, the noise muffled through concrete. The sound was pure magic.
Dahl was in his sweats and crawling into bed when someone pounded on the door, dumping all the adrenaline back into his system. He wrenched it open and found Ian standing on the threshold, machete strapped to his thigh, brow creased, and cradling something small in his hands.
“Babies?” Dahl blurted out.
“They’re fine.” Ian’s voice was tense. “But we have a problem.” A bundle of feathers ruffled in his palms, and Dahl saw he was cupping a petite speckled owl. It looked comfortable, brown and white feathers fluffed for warmth against the piercing cold as it nibbled a strip of jerky clutched in an X-shaped foot. “This little one told me there are unnatural creatures roaming in the night. I think it’s more like the hog creature Megan killed with the car.”
Dahl was pulling his boots back on. “How many?”
“Well,” Ian stroked the feathery head. “He can’t count. He used the word for flock, but that’s all I know.”
Gun, check; ammo, check; parka, check. Dahl grabbed Joyeuse off the wall and he shone a brilliant, lightning-struck blue. “Reasons why we shouldn’t lock the doors and let them wander off?” Dahl needed to make this call in front of the others, but Ian had so much field experience.
“They will go somewhere else, to those less able to deal with them. It would be cowardly for us to let them wander off when we don’t know the harm they would cause.”
“Point taken. Everest! Gear up.” Everest was climbing out of bed, grabbing his jacket and guns. Fitz started crying, half-awake, and Dahl stepped over the silvery dream circle to scoop him up with his blanket and backpack. “How far out?”
Ian made some gentle cooing sounds to the owl and the little creature chirruped in return. “Not far. They are coming from the direction of the moonrise. Heading this way.”
“Everest, what are the odds?”
Everest paused, one boot on. “Eighty percent or better...
I think. Watch yourself, though. There’s a significant chance of broken bones.”
Dahl thrust a protesting Fitz into Ian’s arms. “Get Zack and Megan ready for action. Barricade Blue, Fitz, the babies, and anyone else who can’t fight in the Grit Room so they have food, water, and resources. Everest, get Billy and any volunteers good with a gun to get on the roof with extra ammo. Megan’s with me. We’ll get the snowmobiles and herd them through the alley between the buildings. That should give the gunmen up top a clear killing lane. Got it?”
Ian and Everest sounded off their understanding and hustled out the door. Dahl’s boots crunched into the snow a second later, and he collected a hyper Megan from her block. They raced around to the garage, flinging open the bay doors and grabbing helmets.
He tossed Megan a walkie. “I doubt we’ll get a chance to talk, but just in case.”
Megan clipped it on her jacket next to the emergency shut off cord linked to her snowmobile. She checked her sidearm and a can of bear mace before flipping the ignition and bringing the engine to a buzzing whine. Dahl settled his boots on the footrest, Joyeuse flashing like a rave.
Megan giggled. “I’m not going to have trouble keeping an eye on you.”
“Alright, straight out, then split up and sweep behind them.” Dahl settled his goggles, checking the fit and securing his helmet. “Ready?”
“Let’s bounce!”
Dahl thumbed the accelerator and they picked up speed over the smooth, white snow. He’d ridden four-wheelers before, but it had been a while, and his snowmobile experience was limited to the test drive Billy Davis had given them when they’d arrived. As the world slid effortlessly past, Dahl reminded himself to breathe and aim at a point downfield: proactive instead of reactive. The rear caterpillar track propelled him forward while the front skis skated sublimely over the snow. Dahl slalomed to feel out the steering, leaning into the turns before straightening out and working the accelerator again. Eerie, animalistic laughter rang through the darkness ahead.
They shot out over the moonlit white, hitting 110 mph, the wind whipping by. In less than a minute Dahl caught the first shadows closing fast—dead ringers for the extranatural animal Megan had run over. Go time.
Dahl peeled to the right and Megan went left as they veered around the pack of three dozen charging freakhogs. Details were lost in the low light and speed, but their motion resembled a school of fish—fluid bodies pulsing forward, sleek and unified, slipping through tightly packed turns. It took Dahl ten seconds to realize the problem with his plan: there was no way to herd a blood-crazed stampede.
He glanced behind in the wind-whipped snowscape. The herd had turned and was now bearing down on his trail. Thundering paws, tossing snouts, and several tons of beast flesh were charging in his wake with puffing white breath and moon-wet tusks. Dahl swung in a wide arc along the flat ground. If he couldn’t herd them, he could lead them back. The snowmobile easily doubled the freakhogs’ pace, so as long as he didn’t do anything stupid, he should be good. Dahl refocused on the field ahead.
A second herd was closing with only seconds to react. Thousands of training hours waylaid conscious decision, and Dahl rose to standing and unsheathed Joyeuse while the snowmobile shot forward. He cut to the right and braced Joyeuse at hip level, the miraculous blade slicing through the side of the pack like they were made of cream, the sword throwing green and purple auroras at first blood. Hog bodies tumbled over blood-slicked snow, the side of the herd sloughing off in Dahl’s wake.
Coaxing the snowmobile into a coasting turn, Dahl came around with a huge shit-eating grin. The first group had swung wide of the second and was ready to take him head-on. Group two had likely peeled off to track Megan, and Dahl risked a few words into the walkie. “Megan, lead them back to the killing lane, they’ll chase you.”
Punching the accelerator, Dahl took another pass. It shouldn’t have been so much fun, and he should have been leading them back according to plan, but he couldn’t help himself. Some deep part of his soul stirred with the thrill of facing down the dangerous, bestial foe at breakneck speed with a singing blade in his grip. After cutting down another three or four freakhogs, the full realization jolted him like a defibrillator. Joyeuse was singing. He could hear it—not exactly in his ears, but in his brain stem, in his joints, in his pounding, adrenaline-buzzed heart.
“Wahoooooo!” An inarticulate cry tore from his lungs. “Tu es magnifique!” Dahl shouted the words over the grunt and roll of bodies, louder than the hum of the engine. Joyeuse blushed crimson. He understood. Coming around for a third time, the ground a mandala of blood and bodies, gunfire rang from Camp Nowhere—the freakhogs must already be in the killing lane. Dahl should hurry back.
Instead of charging into a third pass, he veered to the side, leaning with the turn, his golem arm working the accelerator and steering effortlessly. With a sigh he sheathed Joyeuse, a glance behind confirming that the pack was in pursuit as the speedometer edged past ninety. When Dahl glanced back to the route ahead, the world froze. A freakhog leapt directly into his path. There was no time to break, no time to avoid, as every nerve in Dahl’s body braced and he slammed into the thickly muscled shoulder.
Snowmobile confetti exploded as the freakhog went airborne—its forward momentum propelling it into a double flip, tusks over claws before crashing into the frozen ground in a broken meat pile. Dahl attempted to grasp that he was still on his snowmobile, still shooting forward, even with the front fucked up and half his handlebars missing. Steering was out and the brake lever gone, but since the snowmobile was shedding parts like it was molting, he wouldn’t be moving for too much longer anyway.
A quick body assessment was encouraging. Nothing impaled, no gouts of blood. A vicious snarl resonated behind him though, and he was one hundred percent going to lose vital snowmobile bits and wipe out. Dahl checked that Joyeuse was secure, sidearm firmly holstered, rifle slung.
Bailing out, he tucked, rolled, and hit the ground hard, slamming through a foot of snowy cushioning and landing badly on his hip and thigh. He was going to be black and blue, but nothing broke, so he scrambled to his feet and unslung his AR-15, the snowmobile careening crazily behind him—headlights throwing the scene into a strobe-lit tumble while it listed, rolled, and finally stopped. Joyeuse washed the snow in arterial plum while Dahl brought the rifle to his shoulder and double-checked he was shooting into the rising moon, away from Camp Nowhere. As soon as the shadows stirred, he unloaded his magazine.
Dahl couldn’t count bodies, but by the time he ran empty a furry pile mounded in the snow that the charging freakhogs had to scramble around or over. It bought him two seconds to draw Joyeuse before the first hog closed.
The beast was fast but not skilled. The freakhog closed at forty miles an hour like a furry battering ram, head ready to toss Dahl aside. A couple quick steps and an effortless slice with Joyeuse ended the conflict in a gout of hot blood within two heartbeats while the next one closed. Dahl’s hip ached and his nose bled freely into helmet padding as he cut a bisecting gash along the next charging monster: hot, wet, and messy.
Dahl was alone under the frigid moon, sweating, bleeding, and having the time of his life. Joyeuse was a part of him—not like people always waxed poetic about their sword being an extension of their will or other such semantic bullshit, but like they were lovers at an intimate moment, bonded by something invisible and species old and unfathomably real. Where did he end and the sword begin? No idea, and it both couldn’t matter less and mattered more than any other part of Dahl’s life.
The whine of a snowmobile engine closed, and Dahl dispatched the last freakhog in time to face it when Megan plowed into view. From behind her goggles she took in the wreck, the gore-frosted snow, and Dahl’s grin of pure ecstasy before offering him a hand and a toothy smile. Dahl hastily sheathed Joyeuse, the blade a rich, mossy green, and scrambled up behind Megan.
“No more nasties at camp, either.” Megan took them back over the snow, away from t
he stained red and into the clean white. Dahl didn’t want to talk. Megan waited a few heartbeats and continued. “Everyone’s fine. It was a pretty dope plan. You make it out with all your limbs this time?”
Dahl barked a laugh. “Yes. Thanks for coming to pick me up. It would have been a long walk back.”
“Ya! Know where they came from?”
“No. Something we need to try and investigate. First thing tomorrow.”
Dahl fought to keep his eyes open on the dreamy ride. When he stumbled from the snowmobile and pulled his helmet off, it was a shock how much blood was in the foam.
In the Grit Room shower he greedily soaked in excessive hot water, letting the nearly scalding sheets wash over him for twenty minutes before toweling off in the steamy bathroom and pulling on clean sweats. Sore body, exhausted mind, and comfortable clothing. Everest and Fitz were already out, cuddled up in one of the beds, the little boy cocooned in his father’s arms.
Dahl checked and reloaded his gun, and cleaned Joyeuse more carefully, first with a textured rag and then with an oil-damp cloth— working gunk and dried blood from the blade and out of the beautiful hilt. The blood washed from his transparent resin scabbard with a little dish soap and hot water, and Dahl let it drip dry before sheathing Joyeuse and returning him to the wall. His emerald light cast the room in jewel tones as Dahl fell asleep.
Chapter Eight
Dahl was never going to sleep. Comical, really—they were trying to save reality: not the world, not the solar system, but the whole fucking bag of marbles, and they were going to do it from the depths of acute sleep deprivation. Were there other moments in history that would have panned out differently with a solid night’s rest? Waterloo? The Battle of Hastings? Probably.
Everest stirred by the side of his bed. “You alright?” Dahl’s voice was husky as he clumsily mapped out the man’s shape, refusing to open his eyes. Everest, not Fitz. Forcing his sticky lids apart, the green light from his digital watch stabbed his retinas in the darkness. Four a.m. He’d been asleep thirty-five minutes.
