Malefactor

by Robert Repino

  “This is now,” Falkirk said.

  “This is now,” D’Arc replied.

  “This is now.”

  “This is now.”

  When Mort(e) and D’Arc lived on the ranch, they would find themselves in this exact pose whenever one of them had a bad dream. His nightmares brought him back to the war; hers showed glimpses of her old life, of the children she’d lost. He would comfort her in this same way, mumbling nonsense in the dark until she started snoring again.

  From the front of the train came the sound of twisting metal. D’Arc flinched, and Falkirk covered her ears. The Sarcops had ruptured another car, working her way to the front.

  Mort(e) knelt before the two dogs. He expected D’Arc to act surprised. Instead, she watched him as she did on the first day he saw her, with the expressionless eyes of a young pup.

  “I’ve got good news and bad news,” Mort(e) said. “Good news: I think I’ve figured out why the fish-heads let me live.”

  “That Sarcops looked at us,” Falkirk said, still shaken. “It looked right at us and kept going.”

  “I told her to,” Mort(e) said. “You’re welcome.”

  “I know what the bad news is,” D’Arc said. “You found a bomb on the trash truck.”

  “That’s right,” Mort(e) replied. “And I can’t—”

  “You can’t disarm it,” D’Arc said, finishing the thought for him, like she did whenever she got annoyed on the ranch.

  “We could decouple the cars,” Falkirk said.

  “That won’t matter,” D’Arc said. “We’re almost to the city.”

  “So we can’t stop, and we can’t turn around,” Mort(e) said. “We need to run this train through the city, then carry it out the other side.”

  “Will that work?” Falkirk asked.

  D’Arc craned her neck, as if searching for a ball that her master had thrown across the yard. “It could,” she said.

  “You drank it, didn’t you?” Mort(e) said. He could smell it. And feel it.

  “Yes,” she said. Her tone warned him against asking any follow-up questions.

  A noise to his right. Through the open doorway, he saw a pickup riding next to the tracks, its fat tires flinging gravel as they accelerated. When the driver matched the train’s speed, three humans jumped onto the flatbed, each armed with a rifle. Toqwa warriors, sporting fresh deerskin leather shirts, cut low at the neck, with leggings and shin-high boots. The first man to hop on had a bright bald head as smooth as an egg. He motioned to the trash truck and his two minions inspected it, one of them aiming his rifle into the driver’s seat, the other peering inside the empty compactor. He took a sniff, then recoiled at the fishy scent.

  When the bald man turned toward the shattered coach, Mort(e) recognized him. It was the Jerk, the leader of the humans he encountered in Hosanna. Oh, and look: the Toqwa had rewarded him with a wolf tattoo on his face. No going back to Hosanna for this human. Mort(e) had to admire that. The other humans huddled with the Jerk to receive their next orders. The tall one with the weak, hairless jaw was Slinky. The boxy one beside him was Meat.

  “Get to the front of the train,” Mort(e) said to Falkirk. “Find the human. Kill him. I’ll hold off these wolf boys.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” Falkirk said. “We can figure out—”

  “I’m not sacrificing myself, husky,” Mort(e) said. “I’m using you as bait.”

  Falkirk waited for D’Arc, but she already understood. A straight fight in a tiny space would get at least one of them killed. Better to attack from behind, like the Red Sphinx taught him.

  While Mort(e) peeked out the door, D’Arc and Falkirk prepared to sprint to the next car. Mort(e) unsheathed his knife and held it with the blade pointed outward. He twirled his fingers at Falkirk, and the dog handed him another knife, which Mort(e) held blade down. One for slashing, one for stabbing.

  Mort(e) positioned himself behind the broken door. With a nod, he signaled to his friends to run. They took off through the aisle. The humans on the flatbed shouted something. The Jerk came through first, passing right by Mort(e), raising his rifle and firing. The dogs had already made it to the next car. Slinky barreled through after him, taking a position behind a row of chairs and taking aim.

  Mort(e) listened for Meat’s heavy footsteps pounding against the metal. When they reached their loudest, he stuck out the blade at ankle height. On the front of Meat’s left leg, connecting the shin to the top of the foot, was an extraordinary tendon, a piece of flesh that the humans had evolved to help them stand upright. The knife cut through this band of tissue with an audible snap. Meat yelped before landing face-first in the aisle. Mort(e) did not allow him to react. He sank his other knife into the vertebra at the base of the human’s neck. Slinky turned to the noise behind him, only to find Mort(e) seizing him at the waist and collar and tossing him toward the wall of the coach. His hip slammed violently against the metal. He tried to grab something to keep him on board, but his hand gripped the torn metal and fell away. If he landed in the right way, he might live.

  The Jerk, kneeling in the aisle, tried to swing his rifle around. Mort(e) threw his knife. The human raised his weapon, and the blade clanged off the stock of the rifle, knocking the weapon out of his hands. Mort(e) charged. The human grabbed Mort(e)’s wrists, and the two warriors became locked in combat, grunting and snarling. The Jerk pulled Mort(e)’s hands apart, propping him up like a crucified figure, his chest exposed. Mort(e) had never encountered a human so powerful.

  The man smiled. Mort(e) could smell the rahvek on him. With two pistols on his belt, all the Jerk needed to do was grab one and fire. But he wanted to toy with Mort(e) first.

  “You’re old and weak,” the human said. “I saw it on the bridge. You thought you were the future, and you were wrong.”

  Mort(e) tried to pry his wrists free, but the human’s grip only tightened. He tried to kick the man in the chest. The human anticipated the move, and drove the tip of his boot right into Mort(e)’s stomach. The impact rippled, turning his muscles to liquid. He fell to his knees. The Jerk kicked him again, this time square in the face. Mort(e) rolled with the first one. The second blow caught him in the temple. Blood leaked onto his tongue, a welcome respite from the salt water.

  The Jerk readied for another kick. As he shifted his weight, Mort(e) shot upward like a piston and bit into the man’s neck, sinking his fangs so deep that he could feel the pulse throbbing in his mouth. With a thrashing of his head, the flesh pulled free, and a warmth dribbled from Mort(e)’s chin to his chest. The human let go of Mort(e)’s wrists and fell backward, landing in the aisle with his hands shaking over the glistening wound. Mort(e) allowed the hunk of meat to fall from his fangs. It landed on the man’s shirt, a bright red lump, warm to the touch. Stupidly, the man groped the piece of him that had been torn away, as if he could paste himself together. His mouth, spattered red like a clown’s mask, tried to gulp the air.

  Despite all of it, the Jerk wasn’t afraid. Mort(e) had killed enough humans to know the smell of fear. Leaning over the dying man, he saw the reason why. The gaping wound shrank at the edges like an iris constricting. This was what the rahvek could do. With his windpipe knitting itself together again, the man swallowed a breath of air. He laughed in wonder at this miracle unfolding, a gift that only the chosen could enjoy.

  The laughter stopped when Mort(e) yanked the pistols from the man’s belt. Two Glock 19s, nice weight to them. The expression on the Jerk’s face was priceless. Don’t you want to see? he seemed to say. Don’t you care?

  Mort(e) did not. He emptied the handguns, the shots clapping in his ears. As the body wriggled from each round, the shells flipped in the air and collected at his feet. When the breaches popped open, Mort(e) dropped the guns in the aisle, the barrels still smoking. He took the man’s rifle and made his way to the front of the train, passing the other fallen war
riors.

  To enter the next car, he carefully stepped through the hole that the Sarcops created when she punctured the hull. Another hole appeared at the other end. Mort(e) crouched to peek under the seats. No one was here. Despite all their supposed bravery, the wolves and their human allies could run away faster than anyone else. Some of them must have jumped off the train. On his way through, the light streaming into the broken windows suddenly went dark. It was a tunnel, a sure sign that they would reach the city limits any minute. He tried to shake off the strange pressure building in his ears. As the train emerged, the light changed again—now, a sunny morning had become overcast. On this side of the tunnel, Mort(e) could hear gunshots coming from the city.

  He pressed his face against one of the windows. Outside, columns of smoke blotted out the sun. The tracks curved toward the bridge leading into Hosanna. There, a row of military vehicles, along with fencing and concrete pillars, sealed off the city. A crowd of people rushed the barricades, so many that some of them plummeted from the bridge, either shot dead or shoved aside by their comrades. Despite the distance, Mort(e) could tell that these rebels were all canines. They bounded over one another like mutts fighting over a piece of meat. And there were more of them coming from behind—from inside the city.

  Mort(e) arrived at the next car, the last before the locomotive. He checked his rifle, switched off the safety, opened the breach to see the rounds inside. Strangely, the door was halfway open. The Sarcops must have gotten bored with simply plowing through. He imagined her knocking first, then opening it like a civilized person.

  A buzzing sound like a thousand insects scraping their legs together emanated from the doorway. Mort(e) positioned himself behind it and peeked inside.

  The Sarcops occupied the aisle, her scales undulating and convulsing. She pitched her head back to release a scream. A stabbing pain shot into Mort(e)’s eye like an icepick trying to work its way through the bone. He fought it off by digging his fingers into the stock of the rifle. At this proximity, her pain became his.

  The Sarcops was stuck in place somehow, unable to control her body. Two of her tentacles clung to the ceiling. The other two extended to her right and her left, where they wrapped around the necks of Falkirk and D’Arc. The two dogs clawed at the tentacles as they coiled more tightly.

  At the front of the train, the human, Augur, held out a plastic device, some kind of audio speaker. The noise it created drove the Sarcops mad. She may have forced all the Toqwa and Mudfoot to leap from the train, but she would go no farther.

  Beside Augur, the mother wolf wagged her tail. A tooth dangled from a leather string around her neck, yellow and shiny.

  The Sarcops yanked the two dogs toward the aisle. D’Arc collapsed to her knees, choking. Mort(e) tried to aim, but the moving bodies made it impossible. He needed to get closer.

  The Sarcops leapt onto the ceiling and stuck there, a pulsating mass of scales and claws. She pounded her head against the metal, denting it. Mort(e) felt it each time, a pair of knuckles on the inside of his skull.

  He couldn’t take it anymore. He slipped through the opening, charged past his friends and underneath the monstrosity above. The wolf barked. Mort(e) dropped to one knee and took aim. Augur darted to his left as Mort(e) pulled the trigger. Mort(e) tracked him in the rifle’s sights, but the man moved too fast. With each flash of the muzzle, he changed positions. Dropping the device, Augur vaulted the first row of seats. A bullet flew past his shoulder and pierced the window. He leapt to the next row, balancing on the headrests. Another bullet cut through his leather shirt but did not hit his body. No, Mort(e) thought. Impossible to miss at this range! Still, the man kept coming. He gripped the luggage rack and swung into the aisle, allowing yet another round to pass right under his armpit. When he landed a mere two feet away, Mort(e) knew it was over. The human lunged for the rifle and grabbed it. As Mort(e) resisted, Augur used his momentum to smash the stock into Mort(e)’s chin. The room sparked. Mort(e) let go, tumbled away from the human, and regained his footing. He swung a fist, and the human dodged it. With his other hand, Mort(e) withdrew his knife, still warm with blood. He cut an arc through the air. Augur ducked beneath it and jabbed him in the stomach. As Mort(e) doubled over, an uppercut cracked one of his teeth. He collapsed. In a crab walk, he backed away from the human. Mort(e) glanced at the Sarcops for help, but the creature flattened itself against the wall, terrified. She released D’Arc and Falkirk, who staggered to their feet.

  Augur relaxed from his fighting stance and folded his arms. An invitation to try again. No human had ever shown such disrespect to the Red Sphinx.

  Mort(e) sprung to his feet. The movement triggered a stabbing pain in his side that made his right leg go limp for a second. A broken rib, most likely. He turned to D’Arc and Falkirk. They knew what he wanted.

  The three of them stormed through the narrow aisle. Mort(e) reached Augur first. His first swing missed badly. His second connected, but it was a glancing blow. The human rolled with it and slammed the heel of his palm in the exposed space on Mort(e)’s side. He knew right where to strike. Mort(e) collapsed into the seat. Falkirk took his place, slashing at the human and missing. His claws dug out a hunk of fabric in the nearest seat. Augur kicked the back of the husky’s knee, then elbowed him in the snout. A jet of snot and blood ejected from Falkirk’s nose. D’Arc jumped over the husky and swung her sword in a great vertical swipe, pinning the blade into the carpet. It passed so close to Augur that Mort(e) expected his nose to simply drop off. But the man stomped his heel on D’Arc’s wrist before she could raise the sword again. The weapon fell from her hands. When she reached for it, the train swerved to the right, and the hilt rolled away. Augur stepped on the blade and slid it behind him.

  Either out of sympathy, or to mock them, the human gave them a few seconds to consider their predicament. The audio device lay on the floor behind him, still blaring.

  “It almost worked,” Augur said.

  He turned away from them and headed for the front of the train, a sacred place that they would see but never reach themselves. Their long journey ended here.

  The door opened. A pack of wolves poured into the car, a roiling mass of fur, fangs, and claws. Mercy’s personal bodyguards, fouling the car with their earthy stench. Four of them circled their leader. They clawed the carpet and flashed their teeth. One of them, an older female with a white muzzle and a missing ear, crouched at the top of the aisle, awaiting orders. A fresh cut bisected the space between her eyes. She must have escaped from the Sarcops only a few minutes earlier.

  The human stroked the wolves’ fur as they paced about. Mort(e) recognized the numbness in Augur’s dark eyes, the smug loosening of his jaw and cheekbones, the untroubled brow. Humans like him never knew fear or want because the world was rigged in their favor, and they never needed to imagine otherwise.

  Augur nodded to his mate, the female wolf with the fang for a necklace. The others waited. With a single bark, she would order her servants to tear these intruders apart and chew the bones to pulp and lick the blood drops clean.

  Chapter 24

  The Ghost

  Mercy inhaled the scent of her people, and soon it overpowered the stale air trapped in the metal tube. Carsa and Creek. Mag and Quick. Each part of a whole. Everything became simple again. The world split between her pack and the enemy, the way it had always been while she pretended to be a diplomat, a peacemaker. A mother.

  The train entered the heart of the city, where the skyscrapers blocked the morning sun. By then, the rebels had received the signal that the train was under attack. It was their job now to clear the barricades and get the train through so it could deliver its payload. Augur had warned her that skirmishes would break out on every street. Once the shield was lifted and the skin exposed, this giant blade would slip between Hosanna’s ribs.

  At the other end of the car, the three intruders prepared to fight. This was t
he best Hosanna could do: a wet nurse, a fake wolf, and an old cat with no claws. Mercy laughed inwardly at the last one. They sent someone who resembled the Tekni legend that the older wolves would talk about. But this imposter was too short, too scrawny.

  Behind them, the fish monster lay still, its oily, flexible body splashed against the floor and the wall. Augur had switched off the device—the pacifier, he called it. The creature stirred. It may have had the strength to fight, but the device drained its will. Mercy recognized defeat when she saw it, like the blank stare of a doe surrounded by predators.

  With the wolves forming a wall in front of him, Augur reached out to scratch Mercy on her head. He gave her a look that asked for her permission to do away with these invaders. He had stayed true to his word. Despite his power, despite the flaws of his species, he viewed her as a partner, something many of her fellow wolves would never do.

  With a quick, high-pitched bark, she gave the order without taking her gaze off Augur. Her bodyguards charged the intruders. Whatever happened next would never last long.

  As she turned to watch, a monstrous squealing sounded in her ears, and a great force lifted her from her feet. Everyone in the car hung suspended in the air. Carsa, the lead attacker, appeared to be falling backward down the aisle. The two dogs and the cat flung forward, as if shoved from behind. Mercy’s fang necklace levitated in front of her face.

  She collided with the wall at the front of the car. The force of it crunched her ribs, expelling air and spittle from her mouth. Augur hit the wall and dropped to a sitting position. The train stopped.

  Someone had pulled the brake. Someone in the locomotive—another intruder. She knew enough about this machine to understand that. Outside, the concrete landscape was still. A monolith of brick and glass blocked one side of the train. She heard shouting and gunfire mingled with the throbbing in her skull.