“Alright,” I say. I can see any more delaying will shatter whatever delicate trust she holds in me. Hopefully Caitlin’s lateness has given Kia time to find out what the fuck is going on. I try to imagine them barreling toward us in Rohan’s Vic.
The street is deserted, another quiet residential block in Bushwick. I turn and follow Caitlin inside. Behind us, Garrick Tartus’s ragged ghost hangs in the air and announces his name to a world that can’t hear him.
• • •
“I need you to understand something,” Caitlin says as she leads me through a typical drab front hallway and into the kitchen, clicking on lights as she goes. “I know you know a thing or two about the dead.”
“You could say that.”
“I mean, working for the Council, of course. We deal with their dumb shit all the time, right?”
I don’t like thinking about Caitlin and me as coworkers, but there it is. “Indeed.”
“So, you need to understand that the ghosts you’re about to meet were all considered BRH status by the Council.”
“Barely Really Human?”
“Ha . . . That would make sense, knowing how the Council can be. But no: Beyond Rehab.”
“But . . .”
She stops in front of the fridge and holds up a hand. “I know. Don’t think too hard about it. It’s the Council. They were spirits that the Council, for whatever reason, didn’t feel would um . . . shall we say, play well, with the other ghost kids. I know I seem blasé about it, but remember this is my life’s work.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Come,” she says. “Help me move this.” We edge the fridge to the side. A small wooden door waits behind it. Down a flight of stairs in the darkness, and then Caitlin flicks on a light.
Around me, a dozen or so small snarling child ghosts gnash their teeth; their sunken-in eyes dart back and forth. The room is long and immaculate. Children’s toys lie scattered around, which somehow makes me feel sick to my stomach. I had figured on stumbling into a place more or less like this tonight, but still—I feel like a slab of steak in the lion’s den, and all the lions are small, translucent, and rabid. Sorrow and fear flood me in equal parts. If things turn ugly—uglier rather—surviving will mean chopping down slews of already dead children.
Even if I win I lose.
“I know it looks bad,” Caitlin says. “But these ghosts wouldn’t exist at all if it weren’t for the work I’ve done with them. Council would’ve sent them to the Deeper Death a long time ago. Hell.” She chuckles. “They might’ve sent you to deal with ’em. So in a way, I’m saving you work.”
I don’t even bother pretending this shit is in any way cool or funny. I can’t. I’m not that good a liar. “How did you . . . train them?” I don’t really want to know, to be honest. But I do.
She shakes her head, smiles. I think she’s . . . proud? “Wasn’t easy! Right, little guys?” I swallow a little bit of vomit. “They gave me plenty of trouble. Well worth it, though. Well worth it. You guys ready?”
A wretched smile arises from the throng. I take a step back, my hand gripping my cane-blade.
“Relax, Carlos. They do what I tell them.” Her smile stretches wide across her face; little crow’s-feet appear beside her eyes. “So, look—there’s no way Jeremy will fall to ghost hands. First of all, they know him well, and I’m not sure how they’d take to attacking him, reliable though they are. Second of all, he knows how to fight ghosts.” A chilling thought, but I just nod. “And anyway, we need them to handle the Blattodeons. Basically”—she opens a hatch in the floor and starts climbing down—“they’ll run interference while we go in. The Blatts aren’t particularly coordinated, but when they gang up on you, it’s over. And,” she says right before disappearing into the darkness, “it’s a horrible way to go, trust me.”
I shake my head. Panting and muttering, the ghostlings stream around me and vanish down the ladder.
“Carlos!” Caitlin whisper-shouts from below. “You joining us?”
• • •
Darkness and dripping water.
For a few breathless seconds, that’s the whole world down here. That and the occasional pant or grunt from the host of killer ghost kids. My eyes adjust. Up ahead, a dim light shimmers over dark water. Caitlin nods at my cane-blade. “You might wanna have that ready,” she says quietly.
“It’s always ready. Nothing for you?”
She sneers. “I hate weapons. And anyway, these guys are like the best bodyguards a woman could ask for. And loyal to a tee. Let’s go.” I edge forward through the tunnel, stop when my feet reach the murky water. “Stay close to the right wall,” Caitlin says behind me. “The rest is deep and . . . occupied.”
I place one foot in the mire. It laps up against the top of my boot but no farther. That’s quite enough. I step across, hear Caitlin follow. She slides past me and walks to the opening at the end of the tunnel. There’s movement up ahead—a rustling noise and shadows pass in front of the light.
“Caitlin,” a shrill voice whispers. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Caitlin raises her arms. The ghosts break into a frenzied run, streaming past her into a wide-open chamber.
“Caitlin . . .” the voice sighs. “Why?”
Then I hear screaming. A tall figure shoves Caitlin out of the way, hurdles into the darkness toward me. My blade comes out. In the dim corridor, I can just make out the man’s silhouette as he lurches forward and a hundred writhing shapes fling off him. Roaches. I’m about to spin and cover like Gio taught us, when the remaining ghostlings vault into the air, forming a shimmering spectral wall between myself and the Blattodeon. The insects slam into the translucent child barricade and suddenly slow, like they’ve been trapped in molasses. Then, one by one, they burst; tiny splatters of roach guts cascade in slow motion through the interlinking ghosts.
The roach man roars. He’s skinnier now that his protective layer has flown off. The light glints off a stretch of exposed muscle framed by tattered, rotting flesh. He charges, tearing through the ghost wall, and catches my blade in a solid upswing across his chest. Up close, his face is worn down almost to the grinning skull. Just shredded rags of skin dangle here and there like evil laundry hung out to dry. His yellowed, feverish eyes glare out from mostly skeletal sockets.
For a second or two, he just stands there as thick, dark blood seeps from the gash I tore from his navel to his shoulder. When he drops to his knees, I lop his head off just to be sure. The last of the ghosts flush through the opening, and I hear Caitlin yell, “Jeremy, no!” and that high-pitched screaming again.
• • •
The tunnel opens up into a cavernous room. In the center, a raised platform looms over knee-deep dark water. Chains hang from the ceiling; at the far end, other tunnels lead off into darkness. A few flickering industrial lights throw dancing shadows across the walls. About ten Blattodeons move toward me through the water, but the ghostlings are all over them, clawing away at their faces, sinking sharpened, shining ghost teeth into roach-covered, decaying flesh.
One Blattodeon tears a ghostling from his face, shreds it with three quick swipes, and then breaks into a run. Three other ghosts are on him in seconds. He slashes two out of the air as they pounce; the third latches on to his torso and seems to be burrowing into him. The roaches scatter into a swirl, and for a second he’s just rotting skin on bones. Then they return, all of them landing on the ghostling. A howl rings out, and in a few seconds the tiny phantom is just a sprinkle of glimmering flesh, then nothing at all.
Caitlin is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Jeremy. I start to work my way around the edge of the cavern. Another Blattodeon breaks free from the ghostlings and stumbles three steps before two tiny writhing hands wrap around his neck from behind. He flings his arms outward and falls back, disappearing beneath the black water. A few seconds later, hundreds of shiny pink bac
ks surface and swarm circles where he fell.
I keep it moving. Caitlin and Jeremy must be around the other side of that platform. Something long-armed and pale swings down from the ceiling at me. At first I think it’s a fucking albino orangutan. But it’s not; it’s fucking Jeremy fucking Fern.
I don’t know what the hell being the High Priest of Roachville has done to warp his body this way, but he barely looks human. I don’t care to know, actually. I just want this over with. I leap out of the way, and Jeremy lands in a crouch.
That smiling boy from the photograph is just a faded shadow in this creature. Jeremy’s mouth is a crusty, dribbling slash across his long face. His tongue hangs languidly out. His once-bright eyes have narrowed to slits over furrowed dark patches. He lunges forward, spinning those spaghetti arms in a wild circle. When a ghostling charges out of the mire toward him, Jeremy destroys it with one slice of his long, gnarled fingernails.
These guys must’ve powered up with whatever magic allows my own blade to destroy spirit matter. I’ve never seen a living being do that to a ghost. He lunges at me, those long fingernails splayed, and I backstep just out of reach. Caitlin’s nowhere to be seen, and I’m not sure if I should . . . One of the roach guys is on the platform behind me. I catch him out the corner of my eye, rearing back to hurl his swarm. I don’t have time to sit here and pick roaches off my face. I decapitate him with a single cut. When I turn back, Jeremy’s right up on me.
There’s no room to wind up for a good swing. I thrust, catch him in the right side of his bare yellowish chest. We just stare at each other for a half second. Then Jeremy’s gaze lifts to something behind me, and his long mouth creases into a smile. With both hands, I pull my blade upward, tearing through flesh, lung, and brittle, decayed bones, cutting Jeremy almost in half. He peels open, and a swarm of roaches bursts out.
They’re bigger than the others, like small chitinous pigeons. They don’t attack me though. They just flutter in a slow, awful mass toward the tunnel we came through.
And then they’re gone.
And I hear laughter. Around me, the whole cavern has become still. No more fighting. The surviving ghostlings and Blattodeons stare at me. I turn, follow the sight line of Jeremy’s final, grinning stare.
“You did well, Carlos,” Caitlin says. She’s standing over the beheaded roach man. One of the roaches crawls along the side of her face and disappears into her mouth. “You did well.”
I shake my head. “It was a . . . setup . . .” Pieces fall into place and then back out. All this? A ruse? All those Blattodeons and ghostlings sacrificed . . . for what?
“Now that you have freed the Master Swarm from its mortal cage,” Caitlin says. Her smile makes little dimples form along her cheeks. “It will need a new one. Fortunately, we’ve arranged for that . . .”
“My . . . the twi—” I can’t finish the word, because before I do, Caitlin nods, and all I see is red.
I lunge.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Kia
That dead guy Riley was waiting for us when we rolled up. Had a whole team of floating, glowy badasses with him too, including Sylvia Bell, the stern white-lady ghost who was there the day I almost got choked out.
“C went in a couple minutes ago,” Riley said as I ran up to the front steps. Gio, Rigo, and Rohan were behind me, getting heavy with weapons and body armor and shit. “We’re about to go down.”
“We gotta tell him not to kill Jeremy!” I blurt out.
“What?” Sylvia said.
“Can’t explain. No time. You ready?”
“Garrick! Tartus!” one of the ghosts yelled.
“The fuck?” I said.
It was an older tattered-up phantom I hadn’t even noticed before. The architect ghost Carlos mentioned.
“Oh yeah, pay him no mind,” Riley said. “We ready.”
“Garrick! Tartus!” Garrick Tartus yelled even louder.
“That’s weird,” Sylvia said. “It had only been every couple minutes up till just now . . .”
“Garrick! Tartus! Garrick! Tartus!”
I look at Riley. “Uh . . .”
“Garrick Tartus Garrick Tartus Garrick Tartus!”
Riley shrugged, and then Garrick Tartus flung himself into the street. “It’s time!” he howled.
“Goddammit!” Riley sighed as the old ghost began floating away. “Let him go. We need all hands for this shit.”
“Kia.” It was Gio. He looked worn-out. “You sta—”
“No.”
“Kia . . .”
“No, I said. I’m not losing you again. I’m not watching you disappear into some hellhole and never come out. I’m not—”
“Kia, I promise I’ll—”
“I said no!” I stomped my foot. “That’s it.”
We stared at each other for a few seconds as the ghosts started filing into the house. Rigo and Rohan hurried past. The door slammed. I narrowed my eyes. The face that meant I’m not giving in. Gio remembered it, I know he did. He sighed. I smiled, but only slightly: victory meant a horrible death probably, but it was better than waiting, waiting, wondering, waiting . . . no.
This path, I chose.
We ran up the steps together and inside.
“This way,” Gio said, walking unknowingly through a crowd of geared-up, ready-to-throw-down ghosts into the kitchen. We followed him in. He opened a little wooden door behind the fridge, which had been shoved aside, and ran down the stairs.
Rigo ducked in after Gio, then Rohan, then me. The ghosts streamed around us, rustling and furious as they readied for battle. Next came a wide, well-lit playroom of some kind. Creepy as fuck, to be honest, but we didn’t stay long. Gio clearly had the whole place mapped out in his mind: he had already thrown open a trapdoor in the floor when we got down and was climbing into the darkness below.
• • •
The fear sits in my stomach, a squiggly lump, just wrastling and tumbling around. Still: I’m calmer than I ever would’ve thought myself capable of, considering everything. In the tunnel, the dark walls keep squirming to life, but it’s just my feverish daydreams making hell where it isn’t.
Yet.
We’re trodding through their den, after all. They sure to show up. I think about Reza’s girl Angie, what she must’ve felt like living her last however many hours or days or whatever in this dank pit, being tortured, used as a human nesting ground. Then I think about Carlos’s babies. We’re rushing forward through the tunnel, but it’s not fast enough. It’s probably already too late.
“You scared, little lady?” It’s Rohan. He’s beside me, even bulkier with that bulletproof vest on, and cradling his shotgun.
“Nah,” I lie.
“Good.” He flashes a gigantic smile. I want to ride his face.
I know. I know: right now, Kia? I can almost hear Karina say it. But yes, because those arms are lined with muscles, and together they could just lift me up and place me back down, spread, and yes, because goatee, and yes, Jesus, that smile, and most especially because just the thought of it pushes that ball of fear out of my tummy and I realize I’m smiling too.
And then Gio yells, “Incoming!” and flattens against the wall of the tunnel.
“Squad 9,” Sylvia hollers as the dim light ahead of us flickers. “Brace for roach impact.”
Then I realize: the light’s not flickering. It’s being covered up. It’s a swarm. They’ve entered the tunnel and are barreling toward us. Rohan, Rigo, and I throw our backs to the wall. Squad 9 assembles in front of me, those dim shadows shoulder to shoulder, three wide and about eight deep, helmeted heads leaning in. The swarm crashes into them and slows in midair, like they’re flying through Jell-O. They’re huge. Bigger than any roaches I’ve seen.
The Master Hive. They’ve taken wing.
Which means Jeremy is dead, and maybe
Caitlin is too.
My heart beats in my mouth, my ears; my whole face pulses with it.
After a couple seconds of struggle-flight, the Queen Hive bursts through Squad 9’s barricade and whooshes through the tunnel past us with a buzz and flutter. The ghosts of Squad 9 stumble to either side, coughing and collecting themselves. Musta been one of the more awful feelings of their weird ghost lives, having a whole swarm of evil queen roaches penetrate through their translucent flesh.
But there’s no time to dwell or check on our dead friends. I break into a run. Ignore Rohan grabbing for me, ignore the weird chill that slivers along my skin as I brush through Squad 9, past Sylvia and Riley and Gio and then slide knee-deep into a pool of black water.
Something’s rubbing against my legs, but I don’t care. It’s dead, whatever it is. Or was. I keep going, wading through the mire, and come out into a wide-open cavern with a platform in the middle. Six or seven Blattodeons stand in the water, staring. A few of those evil baby ghosts are there too, hovering, staring. I follow their eyes to where Carlos is lunging at a scrawny white girl, blade-first.
Caitlin.
She’s still alive.
I yell with everything I got: “CARLOS, NO!”
Carlos freezes, eyes wild, blade inches from Caitlin’s neck. The ghostlings and roach men turn to me as one.
Caitlin whimpers: “No . . .”
Then the ghostlings flood toward me and the roach men begin to wade through the mire. I pull the blade out, hold it over my head like Ishigu in the Valley of the Damned. Magically, I don’t shit my pants. There isn’t time: the first pediatric fuckspawn of Satan rears up, sharp teeth, mouth wide, pupilless eyes, and long fingernails. And then it flies backward before I can slice it in half. For a second, all I see is Sylvia’s big translucent soccer-mom ass as she dives past me, her arms raining Holy Ghost hell on that little fucker. Squad 9 bursts into the room; they tackle the ghostlings and plaster themselves like Saran wrap over roach guys, sending explosions of six-legged mothafuckas into the dank air. Gio and Rigo vault into the action after them, splashing through the murky water. Rohan follows, swinging a huge machete as he lumbers toward a charging roach guy. Gio drops his foe with a single, skull-shattering spin kick. Rigo ducks a swarm and then lifts back up a second too soon, catching a few in the face. Gio yells and runs toward him as Rohan swings his machete into the head of the roach man he’s fighting, chopping him in half. The Blattodeon lingers for a few seconds, twitching, until Rohan spartan kicks him into the water.
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