by Matt King
“No,” Coburn answered. “Leave that for me. I want every man you’ve got surrounding that swamp.”
“We don't have that many, sir. Most of our boys are deployed—”
Coburn glared at him.
“I’ll get choppers in the air immediately and deploy all available squads. What kind of resistance are we expecting?”
“Heavy.”
“Do we shoot to kill?”
“You can shoot,” Coburn replied. “But you won’t kill them.”
“Sir?”
“Once you have them restrained, bring them to me.”
He left the man with a confused look on his face. The supervisor eventually began to shout orders, sending the rest of the men rushing to their posts. The Horsemen stood still as corpses. He didn’t like the look of uncertainty on their faces. What they needed was focus, something to remind them of their station in the world.
“Gentlemen,” he said.
The Horsemen raised their heads.
“We know where our prey is and we know where they’re going. When they get past these men, we’ll be waiting for them. Follow me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
He'd expected to hear troops following him into the woods, but so far, it was quiet. Bear took out Coburn’s GPS and held a hand over it so he could see the display in the sunlight. According to the map, he was getting closer to the end point of the path. Problem was, it showed August in the middle of a long stretch of swamp water. Turns out Coburn hadn’t been lying about the boat. That was a worry for later, though. He'd figure something out when the time came.
He picked out a point in the distance that matched his heading and set off running again. The tree cover grew dense along his path until there was barely any sunlight filtering through the trees. Dry green moss hung from the branches. Their strands raked across his face as he ran. He thought about August and the pain he must be in to not have the strength to escape. Every second felt like he was losing ten, and when he tried to picture himself saving August in time, something hidden always stopped him before he could get there. I’m too late. I should’ve come sooner. I’m too late.
Just like with momma.
No, he told himself. She couldn't have been saved. He'd repeated those words in his head more times than he could count, and not once did he believe them. The memory of that day was a cut that never healed. Happy as a lark playing beside the oak tree, he couldn't hear his mother's dying plea for help above his own laughing. She died with her hand outstretched toward him. Even now, he could hear her voice calling his name. Would that he had heard it then.
The GPS beeped in his hand. He brought it up to see the antenna symbol at the top flickering. The tree cover must’ve kept it from connecting. He looked up and searched for his landmark but couldn’t find it. He’d wandered too far without noticing. Thin patches of sunlight lay ahead, and he walked to the nearest break in the canopy to hold up the GPS in hopes of getting a signal. He scowled at the tiny screen as the route blinked on and off.
While he fussed with the machine, a whirring noise accompanied a gust of wind pushing through the trees. He froze. It was distant, but he recognized the sound. Helicopter. He tucked the GPS away and ran forward, bounding over tiny creeks along the way as the forest opened up to a clearing. A Quonset hut stood in between him and the beginnings of the swamp like a metal tube buried halfway into the ground. No lights were on. When he got to the building he stuck close to the walls until he got to the first window. He did a quick check to see if anyone was inside. The place was dark and silent. Only a single table sat at one end of the floor. The rest was empty.
The sounds of helicopter blades cutting through the air grew closer.
He moved to the end of the building, hoping to catch a glimpse of the chopper, and instead found himself staring at a metal boat propped against the side of the wall. The hull still looked wet, with a line of mud and algae wrapped around its midsection at the waterline. Beside it was a canoe. He took out the GPS. The trail was back on screen, and it showed the blue pulse marking August's position nearby. He could see the swamp through the trees. It started out as a good-sized cove before giving way to trees and silt jetties. He grabbed the side wall of the canoe and carried it with one hand on his way to the swamp, but stopped after only a few steps. The helicopter was close, maybe just over the trees.
Shadow stirred inside him. He could feel her oiling the gears that would cause him to phase, but letting her free wouldn’t help him find August. He fought back the urge. I’m close now, he spoke in his thoughts. He didn’t know if she could hear him—or even understand him—but he sent the message anyway. After a few seconds, the pressure subsided. He wondered how much longer he could keep her down. She could feel August close, and the danger that was even closer.
The canoe slipped easily into the water. He tossed August’s swords inside along with the GPS. His first step into the hull nearly sent the canoe to the bottom. He walked the boat farther out until the water reached his knees. This time the canoe held his weight. It only had a few inches left before water poured over the side, but it would do. Grabbing the oar, he pushed himself out into the bog. The way forward was pocked with thick trees and mounds of earth rising out of the water. He pushed until he made it to where the water narrowed, sloshing the paddle through the water the entire way.
Like a sudden storm, the helicopter roared by, coming out of nowhere to fly past the open section of swamp. Bear watched the pilot crane his head just before the aircraft headed back to the forest.
He saw me.
His oar smacked against the surface of the water as he swung the canoe hard to the left to avoid a tree. He threw himself into the strokes. According to the display, August was only fifty yards ahead, at most. Bear paddled hard through the narrow veins in between the islands. After two hard pulls of the oar, he made it to open water. He looked at the screen. The boat drifted forward until it showed he was right on top of the pulsing blue light.
Behind him, the vibrations from the helicopter's blades grew more forceful by the second. It would be on him again soon.
Dropping the GPS to the floor of the canoe, he stomped it with the heel of his boot. He didn’t know how the machines worked, but he sure as hell didn’t want Coburn using it to track them on the way back. He looked over the side of the boat. The water was black as tar. He stood and took off his shirt. Seconds later, the helicopter appeared over the trees, its nose pointed directly at him.
The chopper rushed forward. White flashes sparked from the gun beneath its chassis. Bullets streaked through the air, and two found their mark. Bear fell into the canoe’s shell with holes ripped into his ribs and leg.
The helicopter roared past.
He put a hand to his wounds. His fingers came back dripping with blood. The pain was already beginning to subside, but healing wasn’t his biggest worry. He could feel Shadow's pull. It got worse when he heard voices shouting in the distance. Coburn’s men were close.
His breaths quickened. Grabbing August’s swords, he held them up like a talisman, staring at them, repeating to himself that he’d never find August again if he phased. Never in a million years.
Don’t you do it, John Lawson. Don’t let her. Not yet.
He took two long breaths. On the third, he held it. He threw his weight sideways and tipped the canoe over. The water stung his eyes. With no light to go by, he held out his hand and dove deep into the murk. It only took a second for him to reach bottom. The swamp floor was a mess of slime-covered roots and loose dirt. Even underwater, he could hear the helicopter circling overhead. He thrashed his arms in an arc, searching wildly even as his chest started to burn. His fingers curled around every root he hit in hopes it would be August’s arm or leg. Each time, they came back empty. Unable to hold his breath any longer, he pushed himself back to the top.
He broke the surface in a panic, the canoe nowhere to be seen. He turned around and saw it drifting some twenty yards away. Over its hull on the far
bank, a group of soldiers marched through the trees.
“There he is!” a man shouted.
They opened fire, and Bear dove back into the water with bullets ripping through on either side.
With August’s swords still gripped in his left hand, he searched until he was forced to refill his lungs again. In his short time above water, he saw more troops closing in, this time from the woods near the Quonset hut. Gunfire chased him back beneath the surface. His hand found the soil. He zigzagged along the bottom, prodding, pulling at anything that felt solid. He let his air out in quick bursts in an attempt to stay down longer. Overhead, the swamp sounded like a war zone. With every bullet that whizzed by, he felt his grip loosen on Shadow's reins.
He made a left turn when he came across a section of soil with no roots topping it. His fingers raked across something cold and smooth. A chain. He latched his hand to it and pulled. Something lifted off the swamp floor, sending up a cloud of debris. Keeping his grip on the links, he pulled it behind him as he swam toward the nearest shore. If it wasn’t August, he’d have no choice but to switch places with Shadow. He would phase and watch and hope to God that he got the chance to find August again when it was over.
He emerged from the shallows with machine gun fire kicking up splashes of water along the shore. The helicopter hovering above the swamp joined in, giving him only enough time to throw the silt-covered lump behind a tree before he had to duck for cover. Chains rattled against the roots. He crawled toward it with streaks of fire cutting through the trees all around. He tossed August’s swords to the side and rubbed his hand across the layer of muck, smearing the dirt away until he saw something that made his eyes light. Beneath the grime was the unmistakable leather of August’s jacket.
The helicopter drifted into view and opened fire. Bear grabbed August and the swords and ran along the dirt jetty. Just before he made it to a thick grove of trees, hot slashes tore through his back and legs. He nearly dropped August, but managed to make it far enough to fall behind cover before he succumbed to the wounds. His chest felt heavy, as though he were being squeezed between a vice. While he waited for the bullet holes to mend, he took hold of the chains wrapped around August and pulled. The links bowed. He pulled again, loosening the cocoon surrounding August’s midsection with a loud snap. The chains fell away.
A tangled mix of leaves, roots, and wet sludge coated August's body. Bear pawed at the inch-thick layer of mud on his face, uncovering a chin first, then his lower lip. He scraped frantically until he got to the skin underneath.
“Oh, God,” he said as he wiped the last clump of mud away. “What did they do?”
August's skin was nearly transparent from bloating, with black veins stretching across his cheeks and forehead like a spider web. A gray film covered his eyes. His parted lips were caked in filth and badly shriveled. Sloshing between them was a pool of muddy water.
Bear turned August on his side to clear his airways. Only a trickle of sludge came out. He reached down and felt a mixture of sand and clumped plants hanging from August’s mouth. He fished the blockage out. Water flowed onto the dirt in heavy chugs. Bear smacked him on the back to help it along.
“Come on, come on...” He followed the helicopter with his eyes as it searched for an opening overhead. “Wake up!”
August woke in a violent seizure. He began to vomit uncontrollably, expelling large clumps of sand, bile, and black sludge. His skin changed color before Bear’s eyes, losing its spider veins and returning to a paler version of August’s road tan. His first breath was a throaty, gargling inhalation of air.
“Take it easy,” Bear said.
He held on until August stopped convulsing. Bear let him down slowly until he could hold himself up on his own. August's breaths grew stronger, more controlled. The leather jacket he’d been so used to seeing him wear hung on August’s frame like a layer of black moss. August didn’t move, even as the shots coming through the trees intensified. The gunfire clamored in Bear’s ears. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to stand the pressure inside. He was no use in the fight as he was, and the fight was nearly upon them.
“August,” Bear said as he peeked around the tree trunk. “I have to phase. I can't hold her back anymore.”
August got to his feet with his back to Bear. He stumbled forward a step as he fought to regain his balance. Bullets lit the ground around his feet, but he didn't flinch. He slipped off his jacket and let it fall to the ground. He peeled off his shirt. When he turned around, Bear thought for a second that he was looking at a different person. Even at the church, surrounded by monsters Bear could hardly fathom, August never once lost the look of a man who wasn’t excited to be in the midst of chaos. A smile never seemed far away. What Bear saw now were jaws clinched tight and eyes that were no longer filmed with a gray haze, but searing in their amber intensity.
“Do you have my swords?” he asked.
“Yes,” Bear said.
“Give them to me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Cadet Leeland Morris walked through the stand of trees with the butt of his rifle planted against his shoulder and his trigger finger resting on the side of the firearm, just like his drill instructor had trained him. He and the rest of his squad were dressed in their heaviest standard issue as they walked in a staggered line searching for the two intruders, all according to Phoenix handbook procedures. He even practiced his breath control to hold back his emotions as outlined in the Field Guide for Search and Detain Situations. This is the difference. The water in my boots and the goosebumps on my skin and the ringing in my ears…this is the difference between what really happens and the bullshit in those god damn books.
“Morris, report,” Andrews whispered from his left.
“Negative,” Morris answered. “No sign.”
“Eyes peeled, Cadet.”
“Sir, yes sir.”
Eyes peeled my ass. The place was a fucking playground for people who never wanted to be found again. Morris flinched when he heard gunfire close by. The chopper fired off a string of shots, probably because it was Burke flying the damn thing and probably because he was piss drunk and firing at shadows. The rest of the men fired right along with him like they knew what they were aiming at. It was a joke of an operation. The only people who had a chance to catch the assholes were Coburn and his freaks, and where the hell were they? Back at base, that’s where. Coburn would be smoking a cigarette and generally scaring the shit out of anyone who dared to look at him while the freaks sharpened their knives and dyed their hair a blacker shade of black. Thundertwats, all of them.
The swamp smelled old and left behind. He'd heard one of the guys they were looking for was as big as a house, but none of that mattered when the swamp grass was taller than a tractor trailer. Morris pushed through a big stand of weeds and felt his foot sink. He took another quick step so he wouldn’t get stuck. The grass gave way to a good-sized pool of black water a few feet later. He looked to either side. Andrews was already waist-deep in the stuff and the new guy from Wherethefuckever, Idaho was in up to his chest. He had his gun above his head like he’d just won the god damn Stanley Cup.
Fuck this.
Morris eased out of the soup until he got back to solid footing. Andrews and the other guy were close enough. He’d swing around on the right and check the shoreline. Maybe meet up with them on the other side, or maybe keep walking until he found a McDonalds. He’d have a better chance of finding the targets there. Finding a hamburger wouldn’t be too bad either. God damn, he was hungry. It was pizza night in the Mess. As soon as they called off the manhunt, he meant to eat every piece of shit frozen excuse for a pie they wanted to serve him. It was going to taste like reheated cock, but he could care less. Or couldn’t care no less. Whatever the hell it was.
The mud was like quicksand around the edge of the water. He stepped around it and eventually found himself on a thin stretch of grass and rotten cypress roots going out into the pond. Andrews was only
a few yards away. Morris decided to wait by one of the trees. He waved to Idaho and made sure the little prick waved back. He struck Morris as the type with an itchy trigger finger. Better to look like a girl and wave than get shot in the leg. His leg was about the only part of him in danger. Idaho couldn’t hit the center of a target ten yards away with a fucking nuke.
Thinking about bombs made him want a smoke. He had a spare cig or two stashed away in his vest. He moved around to the other side of the tree, hoping he could get a few puffs in before Andrews made it to shore. He was fishing around in his pocket when he saw something white bobbing through the surface of the water on the other side.
Morris re-gripped his gun. He squinted as the sun shone through the trees ahead of him. With the barrel of his rifle pointed at the blob, he stepped forward to get a better view. The damn glare was blinding. He finally shifted his head enough to one side to block out the sun. Once he saw the thing floating toward him, his instincts told him to run for help. His training told him to keep his gun pointed and his eyes forward. The floater was a man. Now that he was closer, Morris could see the guy’s head, too. Wasn’t one of the guys they were looking for a dirty blond?
He poked the body with his gun. The guy floated backwards. Morris knelt down and put his gun across his lap. “Hey, Andrews!” he called out.
“The hell you doin’ up there? You’re supposed to be back here with me and Iowa!” Andrews shouted back.
You dumbass, it’s Ida—
Morris froze. He could’ve sworn he saw a bubble float up near the man’s head. He stared at the spot for a moment. A moment too long as it turned out. His eye caught the muscle of the guy’s arm tense.