Trail of Blood

by Michael McBride

  He tried not to think about Missy, who would wake to find him gone any moment now, but invariably, all thoughts led back to her. She was his greatest weakness, but also the source of his strength. He was willing to kill for her or lay down his life, if need be. Unfortunately, he knew not which option it would be. Not yet.

  He focused again on the road, metered by bent or toppled streetlights. Long since abandoned cars filled the highway, folded into each other, but an easily navigable path through the wreckage stretched before him, as though created just for him by dying motorists whose last thoughts had been of clearing a trail for mankind’s last hope, its would-be savior. Starlight twinkled from the shattered glass fused to the pavement by the heat of the burning vehicles, guiding him onward toward the horizon, where the black monolith stood apart from the night.

  The orange glow he had seen from above appeared ahead and to the right, the heat emanating from it summoning sweat to saturate his clothing. A steel and mortar building had collapsed along the side of the road, the sign designating its name and function now a warped Plexiglas marker hiding shattered bulbs inside a slanting aluminum frame. The building leaned away from the lake of molten fire as though trying to escape, echoes of the screams to come clinging to it in a haze of impending suffering, but he couldn’t think about that now. There was nothing he could do to alter the future he saw reflected from the building through time. His destiny was still in front of him, and stopping to try to avert the inevitable would only damn him, and the rest of them at his side.

  Tears streamed from his eyes as the building fell behind, the burbling lake yawing wide beyond.

  Flames crackled from the turbulent surface in waves. Large bubbles rose from the depths, swelling until they finally popped, turning to parabolic spatters of lava. Smoke gushed from the lake, though not nearly as much as it seemed like there should have been, and somehow through it, in the center of the lake was the white-hot core where the creature lurked beneath. The Leviathan, birthed of the molten lifeblood of the earth and destined to dwell in its infernal depths.

  He maketh the deep to boil like a pot, Phoenix thought, though the voice was not his own. Let those who curse it curse the day, Who are prepared to rouse Leviathan. It was The Man he heard in his head. He who had shouted the scriptures to the Swarm loud enough overhead to be heard even through the floor above in the basement, whose voice had risen to tumultuous levels when fueled by the fires of Revelations.

  Phoenix thought he glimpsed a black head breaching the surface like a crocodile’s, but when he turned there were only more bubbles. And had there been a slashed streak of fire like a smile on that face?

  The black ground slanted away from the highway, through the maze of incinerated trunks, before leveling off to reach the smoldering banks, which only held back the flaming lake because there was nothing left to burn. While he couldn’t be sure that he had seen a face, he could be certain that his passage hadn’t gone unnoticed. The beast knew he was there for the same reason that Phoenix was acutely aware of its presence. He feared that the reek of death clung to both of them.

  Phoenix turned again to the road, which straightened after rounding the eastern edge of the lake, heading directly toward the black tower, which rose steadily ahead from the leveled downtown region. The heat faded and Phoenix grew cold, though not exclusively from the absence of the flames. The wicked sensation originated from the structure, the coldness of the grave, a suitable home for its lord and master.

  Time seemed to stand still and fly by at the same time. He skirted fallen overpasses by riding up the off ramp and then back down the far side, no longer even noticing the snarls of wrecked cars burned black or the incinerated corpses within. His world now solely consisted of the menacing structure and the narrowing gap between. The mounds of rubble grew larger as he approached downtown, burnt wood replaced by buckled and bowed steel girders.

  The stars faded overhead and the moon paled with the vague pale pink aura staining the horizon. At long last, the day he had been dreading his entire life had finally arrived.

  The asphalt ended in a ragged cliff at the edge of the atomic crater, forcing him to slowly descend the rugged debris, weaving back and forth until the ground flattened again. It was as though the greater portion of the city proper had simply dropped twenty feet from its former level. While the pavement was cracked into sections that stood askew at severe angles, he was still able to progress. There were giant chasms where entire stretches of the street and guardrails had fallen into the sewers, for which he had to slow to circumnavigate. He finally had to abandon the highway completely when he reached a segment where an overpass had fallen into the river beneath, tentacles of rebar reaching toward him from beneath the surface.

  Skirting the river, he came upon a point where a section of one of the smaller streets had fallen down, but was remarkably still flat enough that he could cross without the foot-deep water carrying him away. When he rose up the far slanted side, he emerged onto a four lane road lined with the collapsed concrete and iron skeletons of felled skyscrapers. The hoods and trunks of buried cars pointed out from beneath, nearly obscuring all but the center stripe of the asphalt. At the end of the lane was a great courtyard, in the middle of which was a mound of debris capped by an enormous cross. Behind it, the fortress ascended hundreds of feet into the sky, nearly grasping the heavens.

  The air had grown oppressive, as though someone were sitting on his chest. Goose bumps rose over every inch of his flesh. He wiped the tears from his cheeks and managed to steady his trembling jaw.

  The street terminated in what had once been a T-intersection, the streetlights cast aside into the devastation. Ash blew along the pavement like miniature tumbleweeds. He rode the motorcycle up the curb and into the wide concrete courtyard, parking the bike and killing the engine at the foot of the mounded debris. He stared up at the ten-foot cross framed against the tower, a confounding juxtaposition. The sun ascended behind, the reddish-orange rays making the skyscraper appear to be on fire.

  Taking a deep breath, Phoenix climbed down from the seat and leaned the bike on its kickstand. The air around him stood still, the only sound his harsh breathing. The ground around him was scored black, littered with dots of melted glass shards and the concrete remains of planters and the once elaborate fountain. He looked high up to the top floor expecting to see his enemy glowering down upon him, but he should have known better.

  The skin on his back crawled and he closed his eyes, a wave of fear washing over him. He needed to be strong now. Clenching his fists, he turned around, knowing precisely what he would see.

  Two figures cloaked in the rotting flesh of the dead closed in upon him from either side, moving in sweeping motions like shadows, hardly appearing to touch the ground. Their faces were hidden in shadow. Another only vaguely human shape stood no more than ten paces directly ahead, eyes glowing scarlet. The creature looked at first to be one of the vanquished Swarm, but he was so much more. Larger, more heavily muscled, his movements less sinewy and more purposeful. An aura of power hung around him. He was the source of the cold, not the building. This was his adversary. There was no doubt.

  This was Death.

  The Beast smiled at the recognition in his prey’s eyes, a horrible gash of sharp teeth. Stretching his arms out to either side, he extended his talons with a flick of his wrists.

  Phoenix had to bite his lip to keep from crying out.

  Death cocked his head first one way and then the other, his throat swelling in preparation of testing the vocal chords that had remained dormant for so long now.

  “Are you prepared to die?” Death said, his voice gravelly, though containing the force of an explosion, a concussive wave of sound Phoenix felt in his chest.

  Phoenix could only stare at him, summoning his courage to prevent bleating like a lamb when he finally opened his mouth.

  “Do what you must,” he finally said.

  Death’s smile stretched impossibly wide.

&nbs
p; Rest assured. This time Death’s voice was inside his head. I will.

  Hands fell upon Phoenix, clasping tightly around his biceps.

  And you will experience pain beyond the comprehension of the flesh.

  Phoenix nipped through his lip to stifle a scream. Blood filled his mouth.

  Your suffering shall know no bounds.

  He was raised from the ground, but he didn’t protest as his arms were stretched painfully out to either side. His back slammed against a metal girder and he was lifted from the rubble. The emaciated form of Pestilence raised a wiry arm, in her hand a sharply broken length of rebar. He looked away as she tensed to slam down the spike, only to find the stark white form of Famine doing the same. There was no time to even close his eyes before they struck like angry serpents, biting right through his palms and into the metal frame.

  Still, Phoenix didn’t cry out.

  His shoulders strained when they stepped away, leaving him dangling there. Someone held his feet together and he had to close his eyes, knowing what was coming next.

  Thuck!

  VI

  The End of the Trail of Blood

  JILL SCREAMED, BUT EVEN WITH HER MOUTH SO CLOSE TO MARE’S EAR, HE didn’t hear it, as her voice was swept away by the wind of their passage and the buzz of engines. Missy’s headlight flashed ahead of them, weaving through the maze of the burned trees still left standing, flickering like a reel-to-reel movie projector. They were gaining on her, slowly, but they were pushing the bike too hard. Every turn made them skid a little farther, every stray rock or pothole threatening to catapult them from the path. Any dip launched them into the air, the resulting bounce when they landed again sending them right back into the air. She was horrified they were going to crash, envisioning herself wrapped around a trunk with a broken spine, sharp compound fractures jutting through her bleeding skin. To have come this far, only to die from an accident…

  She pressed her face into Mare’s back after watching Missy’s bike soar from a small knoll, knowing in a matter of seconds they would do the same. Gritting her teeth and pinching her eyes shut, she whimpered and braced herself. The motorcycle crunched forward, abusing the spring shock on the front tire, and then they were airborne. The sensation of weightlessness was acute. Her gut tingled, but there was something else, that familiar feeling of detachment, of being yanked out of her body and into a realm devoid of her physical bond to the world. Before the tires again met with the earth, her mind was transported somewhere else entirely.

  “You have to tell him,” a familiar voice said from the darkness.

  Jill wasn’t sure where she was until she opened her eyes and slowly adapted to the smothering blackness. She was sitting in the top room of the pueblo, which was subtly lit by the wavering glow of a torch somewhere above through the hole in the roof. In front of her sat the skeleton of her ancestor, though the bones appeared softened by the spectral haze of the woman’s former physical form, a semi-opaque overlay of life upon death. Her dark eyes blended into the shadows of her hollow sockets, her transparent lips moving over eternally bared teeth. Even from beyond the grave, she exuded a vibrant, golden aura of vitality.

  “I can’t,” Jill said.

  “You must.”

  “How can I even be sure?”

  The lips smiled over those awful teeth. There was no light in the expression, just a mixture of patience and sorrow.

  “Tell me you can’t feel her, already growing inside of you.”

  Jill said nothing, and was unable to maintain eye contact. After a moment of weighted silence, she nodded.

  “Then you must tell him. Now. He needs to know right now, child.”

  “I don’t want to lose him,” Jill whimpered. “I love him.”

  This time the ghost’s smile was genuine.

  “Of course you do, and he loves you too. That’s why you must tell him.”

  “But if I do…” Jill started, knowing that saying the words would only start her crying. “If I do…he’ll die.”

  “If you don’t, you all will.”

  “You could be wrong.”

  The smile grew impatient. Lines of worry crossed the skull like gossamer.

  “You must tell him now,” the voice said as darkness again assaulted Jill, closing her off from the fantasy world around her.

  Jill opened her eyes again, and was immediately startled by how loose her grip around Mare’s waist had become. His right hand was squeezing her wrist, hard, the bike swaying as he attempted to drive with only his left. He was shouting her name repeatedly, his grip tightening to the point she feared bones might snap. Her head had slid down his back and now rested below his right scapula. Her rear end threatened to drop right off the end of the seat.

  She pulled herself back upright, nearly toppling the whole works with the jostling. Mare loosened his grasp when her hands tightened again around him, and glanced back at her every couple of second to make sure she was all right.

  The landscape had changed dramatically since her blackout. No longer was she surrounded by burned tree trunks, but by piles of scorched rubble, what little remained of the houses fallen into their basements, warehouses and office building flattened on concrete slabs, half-consumed two-by-fours protruding at odd angles like so many porcupine quills. The dirt path had given way to cracked asphalt, a new growth of weeds rising from the fissures through the ash in small tufts. Missy’s taillight glowed red ahead as she slowed and stared from the highway down the embankments to either side at the sad remains.

  The sun was finally piercing the horizon, shoving away the night with pink and red arms, though there was still that eerie orange glow hanging over the coming rise.

  “I’m pregnant,” Jill blurted, though she could tell by Mare’s reaction that he hadn’t heard. Surely he would have at least acknowledged her in some small way. She leaned closer to his right ear, resting her chin on his shoulder. “Mare!”

  He turned his head toward her, startled by her shout, and banged his cheek into her forehead.

  “I have to tell you something!” she yelled.

  “What?” His eyes flicked back and forth between her face and the road.

  Jill hesitated, her courage faltering. What if she told him and he freaked out? What if he got mad? What if—? “I’m pregnant!” she shouted before her nerve abandoned her entirely.

  His eyelids snapped back, his orbs appearing close to spilling out. The bike wobbled and nearly capsized. He had to slam the brakes before he lost control. The rear tire locked, leaving a trail of rubber. His feet hit the pavement for balance and he twisted around to see her.

  She couldn’t read the expression on his face. He was so young, his upper lip and chin covered with downy white fluff. His lips parted, but no sound came out. A confused expression lined his forehead, crinkling his nose and narrowing his eyes. He opened his mouth wider, but the words still eluded him.

  “Did you hear me?” she asked, averting her eyes, which had begun to well with tears.

  “I’d swear you said…” His voice trailed off as the others caught up from behind. “Did you say…?”

  Jill nodded. When she turned back to him, tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  “What’s wrong?” Adam asked, puttering beside Mare.

  “Please,” Mare said. “Don’t let my sister out of your sight. We’ll be right behind you.”

  Adam gave Mare a questioning look and waited momentarily for him to elaborate, but Missy was already little more than a red dot down the road.

  “Don’t take too long,” Adam said, rocketing forward before Missy disappeared completely, nearly jettisoning Ray from the seat behind him. Evelyn sped to keep up with Jake clinging to her.

  “We’d better hurry and catch up,” Mare said, his expression still an enigma.

  “Don’t you have anything to say?” Jill said, struggling to keep her voice firm.

  He turned to face the road ahead, his back to her. “My father was an abusive drunk.”


  Jill waited for him to continue. She finally spoke when it became apparent he wouldn’t. There were so many things she wanted to say, but they were nearly out of time. She wanted to reassure him that he wouldn’t end up like his father, that everything would work out like it was supposed to. But she couldn’t. There would be no future for them.

  “I love you,” was all she could think to say.

  “I love you, too,” he said, though he didn’t turn around. Jill knew why. She could see the tears trailing down the side of his cheek.

  Jill’s heart sunk in her chest. She wondered if this was what it felt like when it broke as Mare launched the bike down the road toward the twin red lights vanishing around the bend ahead.

  VII

  MARE COULDN’T ABSORB IT ALL AT ONCE. IT FELT LIKE THE WORLD WAS spinning out of control and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was scared. Terrified of what awaited them down the road; terrified of the bombshell Jill had just dropped on him. He was still just a kid, for God’s sake! Granted, none of the old rules applied. Everything was life or death now, but still, his initiation to adulthood had been as abrupt and painful as his father’s overhand right. His father…the last thing he needed right now was to have to remember his old man, the man who had beaten him to the brink of unconsciousness on more than one occasion, whose whiskey-fueled anger had torn his family apart. What if he ended up like his father? They say that while everyone may rage against it, eventually they turn out just like their parents, repeating the same trite adages, the same mannerisms, perpetuating that which they most despise. In his case, violence. He couldn’t allow that to happen to him, but what if he had no control over that transformation? What if his temper had been set on a razor-wire trigger like his father’s? Would he awaken in the night, frustrated with the baby’s incessant crying, and begin beating on him before he knew what he was doing?