by Romi Hart
Was that Malachai? He looked different even though he was wearing a different suit almost nicer than the first one. He wheeled one way and then the other swinging his fists at anyone who came near him.
The assailants closed their circle around him with the same unwavering inevitability they used on Isabelle. The one with the knife brandished his weapon and it winked in the faint light.
Malachai bared his teeth and bellowed one way and then the other. Someone got a little too close behind him. He rotated and flung out an arm. His fist made contact with his enemy’s jaw and all the others closed over him at once.
The sight erupted through Isabelle in a volcanic explosion. She twirled her key ring on her index finger and caught the mass of metal in her clutches. She lunged for the nearest man and smashed her car key into the back of his neck. The skin snapped under the pressure and the guy buckled to her feet.
She didn’t hesitate a second. She ripped her gore-streaked hand away and launched at the person to her right. He turned around to face her, but all the rest of them attacked Malachai in single-minded intent. She lost sight of the knife in the melee, but that didn’t concern her now.
She pivoted yowling in primal fury. She lashed out with her keys at the next man in line, but he dodged. He rotated around her knuckles and veered inside her elbow. Her arm banged into his shoulder and he caught her in a death grip.
Lightning quick, he toppled her over his knee and she slammed down hard on the pavement. He dropped onto his other knee and his massive fist flew at her nose. She saw her fate unfold before her eyes. What could she do to stop it?
A wink of silver flashed across her forehead. He froze with his elbow wound back to strike. He gaped at her staring in astonishment. Something dark stuck out of his throat and a drop of hot liquid dripped onto her cheek.
She waited, but he didn’t move. Then, out of the vast distance of space, she recognized that thing sticking out of his neck. It was the handle of that other guy’s Bowie knife. Blood trickled down the leather grip. Slippery droplets splashed into her hairline.
He creaked forward and collapsed on the ground at her side. Nervous energy rocketed her to her feet once again, but she didn’t see anybody standing up—nobody. The attackers sprawled every which way. Malachai crouched among their motionless carcasses.
While she watched, he slumped and crashed over onto his shoulder. He groaned and his shoulders hunched. He writhed onto his side, tried to get onto his knees, and fell on his face.
Isabelle stared at him not understanding what was wrong with him. She only ever saw him standing upright strong and collected. A deep rattle croaked from his body and she shook all over.
That sound broke the spell and she rushed to his side. She dropped down next to him, but she didn’t want to touch him. “Malachai! What’s wrong? What happened?”
He made another excruciating effort to get up and careened over one more time. He landed on his side again, and this time, he rotated onto his hip. He screwed himself into a sitting position.
Then she saw it. A deep gash sliced through his pants. Blood gushed down the leg underneath and a hideous wound flapped raw muscle and sinew to the bone. Isabelle gulped down the desire to retch, but she didn’t dare touch him.
Her hands fluttered over the wound. She rummaged in her brain for anything sensible she might do to avert this disaster. Sweat streaked his forehead and cheeks and his lips quivered. This was bad, real bad.
He clamped both hands around his leg, but that did nothing to stop the bleeding. Come on, Isabelle. Think. What did you learn in First Aid class? She couldn’t remember.
She commanded herself to look at that wound again. More blood came out of nowhere. It ran down his leg, saturated his pants, and formed a pool under his thigh.
She started to panic when the pink skin around the ragged sides of the cut changed. A faint blush of brown scales flashed across the surface. She very distinctly made out the sharp edges of one scale lying against another before they vanished. They receded under the surface and left the skin as pink and clear as ever.
She opened her mouth. Could this be the answer to her questions? She stole a glimpse up at his face. He looked as human as always. He gasped between strained lips. He uttered a slight moan of agony with every breath. His dark eyes darted around the shadowy parking lot.
She swallowed hard to get her throat working. “We have to get you inside, Malachai. We have to get this bleeding stopped. I have equipment in the lab…..”
She babbled thinking all the time. If she could get him down to the lab, she could run some more tests on him. She could find out what he really was…..
He didn’t look at her. He kept glancing northward. “…. Can’t…..Gotta…. I gotta get…..”
He caught his breath. His cheeks and neck turned an ashen shade of grey. He didn’t look collected now. His teeth chattered trying to hold himself together.
She gathered her resolve and swiveled around to his side. She picked up one of his arms to get under it, but he didn’t let go of his leg. “Come on. I’m sure there’s someone inside who can….”
“No!” He broke away. “…Can’t!”
He lunged away and jumped to his feet. He teetered and staggered a few steps. His injured leg dragged and his other leg didn’t support him very well. He crashed into a nearby car and sprawled across the hood.
He raised his head and stared off into the dark, but Isabelle couldn’t see from behind whether he was looking at anything at all.
She hurried to his side. “You can’t go anywhere like this. You’ll bleed to death.”
“Gotta go.” He hoisted himself up and tottered away.
Isabelle stood still and watched him weave between the cars. His head swung back and forth scanning his surroundings. She didn’t want to let him go, but she couldn’t go after him. She couldn’t even call his name to draw his attention to herself. She could only stand and stare at him turning onto the street and vanishing out of sight.
9
A catastrophic blow woke Malachai from a stupor. Pain and alarm wracked his being. He swam up out of a semi-conscious state to find himself leaning his shoulder against a building. His eyes slipped in and out of focus more than once before he realized he must have staggered here.
He flattened his palm against the unforgiving brick, but when he pushed himself off it, he doubled over and puked onto the ground. He felt awful. He couldn’t remember feeling this bad. Sinking cold dread gripped his insides. He had to do something. He had to get somewhere. He needed help or he would die out here.
He made another heroic effort to walk, but his knees gave out. One leg felt hot and the other he couldn’t feel at all. He crashed down hard on his side. He caught his head before it cracked on the blacktop, but he couldn’t make his broken body obey him.
Every breath stabbed him in the side. Those guys must have broken a few of his ribs and half his face swelled up where they bashed him with a baton. He had to shift in the end to kill them, but not before the big one slashed his thigh with that knife. At least Isabelle didn’t see him shift. She was too busy fighting on her own battle.
Now he was bleeding to death. He felt that in his deepest soul. He didn’t need to see his leg to know that. He felt it on the inside, in his heart and in his guts.
A vision of Ogru-Kuche drifted across his mind. He had to get back there. He had to get home if it was the last thing he did. He didn’t mind dying as long as he could do it at home around his own people.
He squirmed across the rough asphalt. He clawed his fingertips through broken glass and gravel, but he couldn’t use his legs. He dragged his useless form to the nearest wall and hauled himself up. He leaned his back against it even though that hurt worse than ever.
His heart sank when he examined his leg. The blood only flowed from the wound now. He must be really far gone and his head felt heavy. He wanted to go to sleep. His consciousness shrank to a pinprick. He wished he was in bed in his own room. That was
all he really cared about.
He grimaced when he touched the skin near the wound. It didn’t hurt as much as his head and his chest, but he had to stop the bleeding somehow. He took hold of his pants. With the last of his strength, he tore off what was left of his pant leg.
Every move cost him all the strength he could muster. He gasped and sobbed. He wanted to cry. He wanted his mother. He wanted her to kiss his forehead and make everything better like she did when he was little. Everything would be okay if he only made it back to Ogru-Kuche, but he was miles away from there.
He tore the fabric into strips and tied them around his leg. He gritted his teeth against the pain and forced himself to cinch it tight. That would have to do. If it didn’t, it wouldn’t make any difference because he’d be just as dead.
He let his skull fall back against the wall. He whimpered in despair for a few minutes, but he couldn’t close his eyes. He had to go. He had to get up. He had to.
He stole a quick peek around the corner. When he saw where he was, he had to compress his lips to stop himself from breaking down in utter anguish. He wasn’t even near Central City.
He rested his head again, but when he looked around the alley in which he found himself, he stiffened his resolve. He couldn’t die here—not here. He would die with New Breed around him. That was all there was to that.
He set both hands flat on the ground next to his hip. He had to think hard to make up his mind to do something. He inhaled several lungfuls of air before he found the energy to flip over.
He landed on his hands and knees and really did break down crying from the pain of putting his weight on his knees. He rocked there giving vent to his agony. He thanked God his father and his brothers and his friends couldn’t see him brought to this state.
He couldn’t get on his feet. That was out of the question, so he shifted his hands to the wall one at a time. He put his left against the brick. Then he had to concentrate all his mental power on bringing up his right.
One cruel inch at a time, he got his torso leaning against that wall. He hauled himself up and put his left foot on the ground. His legs shivered, but he held Ogru-Kuche in his mind. He obliterated everything else including himself.
He belonged to Anarock. He would always return there, even in death. He let go of the building and let gravity draw him forward. He couldn’t feel anything but the dull thump of his feet against the sidewalk.
He lost consciousness more than once, but he was walking too fast to fall over. Every time he started to topple, his feet appeared under him to take another step.
He slammed into the fence. He could see Central City across the expressway. It was right there, right in front of him. He could almost reach out and touch it. He extended his arm through the fence, but he couldn’t get to it.
Through the bars, he spotted a small group of young men talking on the corner under a streetlight. They put their heads together so Malachai couldn’t hear them. He wanted to call to them, to ask them to help him get over the fence, but his voice wouldn’t function. They didn’t notice him at all.
He gulped down his sobs. He crushed the bars in his fists. He hated that fence, but he had to cross it. Once he did that, he would be on his way home.
He put his foot on the bottom rail, but he couldn’t use his muscles. Every cell hurt, but he was too sad and upset and frustrated to give up. He got mad enough at his own ineptitude. He wanted to destroy that fucking fence. That gave him the strength to drag himself up it.
He flopped over the spikes on top. They gouged his stomach while he hung there digging deep for the last shred of energy to fall on the other side. The pain couldn’t make him move. He had nothing left.
He pried up his head. He would give anything to call to those guys. They were right over there. They didn’t see him dangling here like a dead pig. Ogru-Kuche. Anarock. Victor.
He collapsed and his torso banged into the bars on the other side of the fence. The blow tore him off the spikes. His own weight flipped him over and he smashed into the concrete on the other side.
He landed on his shoulder. He barely got his head rotated a few inches away to avoid braining himself right there. His battered form slammed down hard and he screamed in pain against his will.
He writhed over on his back hugging his arms over his nauseated midsection. He couldn’t survive this. He didn’t want to. He wanted to die. He couldn’t stand up again. He understood that to the depths of his core. He didn’t have enough blood. He was finished.
Tears streamed out of his eyes. They burned fiery paths into his hair, but he couldn’t uncurl his abdomen to wipe them away. He sent up a silent prayer to his family. He would never see them again.
A murmur of voices touched his fevered brain. He closed his eyes against the anguish and despair of being alive.
Just then, a gentle breath punctured the veil of torment. “Malachai? Hey, Malachai. Look at me.”
He cracked his eyelids to find those young men surrounding him. He peered at black faces and brown faces and a couple of Asian faces. A head of straight, black hair entered his line of sight and he discovered himself gazing up at Levi Kehoe.
Malachai swallowed hard. “Levi? Levi, is that you?”
A faint smile touched the young man’s lips. “Yeah, man, it’s me. What the fuck are you doing out here?”
Someone murmured in Levi’s ear. “Holy shit, dude. Take a look at this.”
Someone touched Malachai’s injured leg. An instantaneous reaction ripped through him. An explosive tide of vomit erupted out of his mouth. He barely wrenched himself sideways so it didn’t spew all over his own face.
He rotated onto his shoulder, but he couldn’t even spit out the putrid remnant. He lay there groaning for what seemed like ages. The filth stuck to his cheek and ran into his hair.
A rough hand stroked his cheek. “Easy, man. Take it easy. You’re gonna be okay. You’re okay.”
Malachai could hardly bring himself to turn over to look up at the young man. “Please, Levi…. for God’s sake, help me…..Please.”
“Sshh,” Levi whispered. “You’re okay, man. You’re okay. Just lie still. I got you.”
Malachai couldn’t relax. He could only crunch his stomach in a torture of agony and tension. He groaned staring up at Levi. Of all the faces in Anarock he dreamed of seeing one more time before he died, he never imagined he would see one that made him want to weep in hope.
Levi gave him one last quiet smile. The next instant, he reared back and hurled his arms to each side. He shot off the ground with a terrific bellow and a monstrous form blasted out of his chest. It erased the young man of a moment before and a grotesque creature out of Hell itself pounced to straddle Malachai.
Malachai blinked up at a head encrusted with spikes. The thing towered over him baring its dripping fangs, but Malachai sank back onto the ground. He knew now that he was home. He was saved. He would live.
The monster lowered its disgusting visage to within an inch of Malachai’s face. It opened its mouth and its fetid breath brushed Malachai’s cheeks.
A wave of brutal pain hit him in the head, but the creature kept breathing on him. It blew its breath across his cheeks, around to his ears, and down his neck. It covered his body with that breath, all the way down to his leg.
The pain climaxed to an intolerable crescendo. Malachai pitched back howling in torment, but it only got worse with every passing minute. He thrashed back and forth, but he couldn’t fight it.
The monster inched back and crouched over his leg. Its breath burned into his flesh until he couldn’t tolerate any more. A broken shriek ripped from his throat and he swooned out of consciousness.
The next time he opened his eyes, he felt himself floating through space. He blinked up at a clear blue sky. It was day now, but he wasn’t on the ground. When he turned his head, he saw buildings floating past—the tops of buildings. He must be thirty feet off the ground.
He tried to turn over. The surface on which he lay
gave slightly. It felt like skin. He fought to clear his vision, but his head weighed a ton. He reclined back. He wasn’t in pain anymore, but he never felt so weak.
He opened his eyes one more time and gazed up at a human face, a male face. It smiled down at him. It looked familiar. He frowned trying to place it.
A loud voice punched into his mind. “Don’t try to move, brother. You’re almost home.”
He focused all his attention trying to place that face and that voice. At last, it came to him. It was Vaughn Storm, one of the youngsters Malachai grew up with on the streets of Central City. He hadn’t seen Vaughn in years. He didn’t even know Vaughn was still in Anarock.
Vaughn’s face appeared impossibly big and impossibly close. It couldn’t be that big. Something must still be wrong with Malachai’s mind. He must still be suffering from loss of blood.
Malachai opened his eyes again and found himself sinking, falling through the air, but with that cushion always supporting him. He hauled himself onto his elbow and blinked. The surface on which he lay was skin. He was lying in an enormous human hand. The fingers curled to stop him from falling off.
He drifted down and Ogru-Kuche came into view. The hand lowered him into the yard behind the fence. It slithered out of the way and put him down on the rough asphalt.
Malachai sat up and the strangest sight imaginable appeared before his sight. His brother Victor, his sister Courtney, Riley, Finn Weeks, and Lincoln Manning stood on the steps of Ogru-Kuche. Jules Hitchcock hovered not far away where anyone could see him.
On Malachai’s other side, Vaughn knelt outside the barbed-wire fence. He smiled down at Malachai with that benign grin that Malachai knew only too well. Malachai frowned at him because Vaughn was about ten times his usual size.
In front of Malachai’s eyes, Vaughn stood up. He straightened up taller and taller until his head rose dozens of yards above the city. He kept beaming that broad grin at Malachai down on the ground at Vaughn’s enormous feet.