The Edge of Ruin

by Melinda Snodgrass

  There were a number of people in the clearing. They were dirty, skinny, and wandering about in confusion. Pamela studied the faces of the advancing people. They held every possible vile, frightened, mournful, and violent emotion. And Pamela realized she had seen them before in the carved grotesques adorning the columns of European cathedrals and etched in the walls of Mayan temples. What attention the mob could bring to bear seemed focused on the rapidly approaching motorcycle.

  Blood sacrifice, crusade, jihad, pogrom. This is where it leads. Why didn’t we realize that before it was too late?

  And then she lifted her eyes to what lay beyond. The gate, and the things that hid in the smoke, mist, fog?—it defied her ability to describe. Pamela’s legs lost all strength, and she collapsed under the sheer weight of terror and wrongness. Syd grabbed her under the arm and yanked her back up. His fingers digging into the soft skin of her armpit sent a flare of pain through her body.

  The motorcycle was heading down into the dell. Even from here Pamela could see the flare of the sword. It was so bright it threw light onto the roiling mists, and they seemed to recoil from its light. The filthy, blank-faced attackers began moving toward Richard.

  “I’m gonna try to get around these guys so I can help out Richard,” Rudi said.

  “Good idea, let’s do it,” Sam panted.

  And before Weber could respond they went running off to the left, circling around the mob.

  Rudi ran between the curving glass mausoleum that entombed Kenntnis and the gate to an alien sun. Sam was right on his heels. Suddenly Rudi’s back arched. The skin on his hands and face reddened and split, and oozed blood and fluid. Sam gave a cry of horror and panic and threw herself backward. She lost her balance and fell hard on her tailbone.

  The material of Rudi’s shirt and pants darkened as they soaked up blood from his rupturing flesh. He writhed like a jerked puppet, and his screams echoed across the dell. Joseph started to rush to him only to be tackled by Syd and Weber. Tears were spilling down Pamela’s cheeks. They evaporated in the terrible heat.

  Rudi collapsed onto the sand. His face was a ruin. Blood and mucus oozed from his sockets where his eyes had exploded. Weber was cursing. Joseph was crying. Syd was gagging, and Sam was making a keening cry like a hurt rabbit.

  Pamela jerked her gaze away from the horror and saw that the mob was converging on Richard. She picked up the nightstick that had dropped from Weber’s nerveless fingers and yelled, “They’re going to try to take down Richard. If that happens we’re all dead!” and she went running after the people converging on her brother.

  She heard the other’s footfalls behind her. She reached the edge of the crowd. For an instant she hesitated, and then she swung the nightstick. It connected with the back of a man’s head and dropped him in his tracks. Pamela didn’t have time to feel guilty. They had noticed her. She swung again.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  RICHARD

  I was shouting no, no, no as I watched Rudi fall to the ground, and I couldn’t understand why they were out here. They were supposed to wait for me at the house, free Angela and wait at the house. If they’d done what I said Rudi wouldn’t … wouldn’t …

  Then I heard Eddie’s voice, surprisingly calm, saying, “Get us out of here. I’ve learned enough, and I don’t know how to counter it. The pump laser is still operating. Given this set of parameters I have no clue what to do. I’ve got to thi—”

  The word cut off, Eddie was suddenly making choking sounds, and we were both being dragged off the back of the bike. Or rather Eddie was being dragged, and he was maintaining his death grip on my waist, which meant I was coming with him whether I wanted to or not.

  I didn’t have a lot of options, and the only good one meant I hurt Eddie. I offered up a mental apology, and slammed the end of the hilt against Eddie’s hands. I felt fragile bones shatter, and his hand sprang open.

  “You fuck! You bastard!” Eddie screamed, a long wail of despair as he was yanked off the back of the bike.

  I had a brief glimpse of Weber, Joseph, and Pamela attacking a milling group of people while Syd pulled Sam to her feet, but I couldn’t help them yet. I had to get Eddie. I planted my left foot, and spun the bike in a fast turn, and nearly laid it down as the tires slipped in the slick red sand. My arm shook with strain as I struggled to control the bike. I finally had it upright, and then I narrowed my focus to the core of my body, tightened the muscles in my back and stomach, and found the balance point. I took my right hand off the handlebars and awkwardly pulled the pistol out of the shoulder rig. I dropped the heel of my left hand onto the handlebars to steady the bike against the recoil that was to come, lifted my right hand, braced my body even more strongly, and pulled the trigger. I had figured I’d miss by a mile, but maybe spook Eddie’s attacker. Instead the bullet took the man full in the face. Blood, brains, and shattered pieces of skull formed a halo before the body collapsed. For an instant Snyder’s ruined face flashed in front of me.

  A woman was running toward Eddie. He lay on his back, chest heaving, mouth opening and closing like a landed fish, hands pressed against his chest. The bike wobbled, threatening to tip. I tried to stuff the pistol into a jacket pocket, but the butt overbalanced it, and it fell away. I felt incredibly naked, but I pushed aside the dithering thoughts that had me wanting to stop and recover the gun, and took back control of the bike. I roared up between Eddie and the woman and used the sword to cut her down.

  “Get up! Get on! Hurry!” Adrenaline seemed to be popping and fizzing along every nerve.

  But Eddie just lay there. I put down my foot, leaned way over, grabbed the scientist by the belt buckle, and yanked him up.

  “Behind …” Eddie croaked.

  For an instant I was befuddled by what seemed to be a non sequitur. Then I glanced into the side mirror. “Oh, shit!” I reversed my grip and stabbed straight backward. The man folded around the blade and grabbed it with both hands. I yanked it free. I thought I saw fingers dropping toward the ground. Eddie flailed, struggled, and finally got his leg over the bike.

  I headed for our companions. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a man walking deliberately down into the dell. His right arm was at his side, and a gun hung negligently from his fingers. I recognized the narrow, acne-scarred face. Doug Andresson. My counterpart. The man who had taken Angela. Four raw scratches ran down his face. It looked like Angela had paid him back.

  My mind spun like a frightened, maddened top. He’ll get close enough … into the effect of the sword, and shoot me. And I don’t have a gun. I’m dead.

  I remembered how the sword had swallowed up the effects of spells that had been thrown at me. Maybe it would do the same with a bullet? came the pathetic little thought.

  You idiot. This isn’t Star Wars. The sword negates magic because magic is alien to our world. There’s nothing more natural than a goddamn bullet.

  Andresson was close enough now that I could see the smirk of satisfaction. I was so focused on Andresson that I didn’t notice the man huddled on the ground. He leaped up and threw himself against the front tire of the bike. It was too sudden, the sand was too deep, and I was too tired. The bike, me, the man, and Eddie all went down in a welter of flailing arms and spinning tires. Gymnastics had taught me how to fall and how to avoid falling. As the bike was going down, I swung my leg over the handlebars and jumped. I had only one thought, don’t drop the sword, don’t drop the sword. But trying to hit and roll with a five-foot-long blade is not a lot of fun, and I wrenched my shoulder badly as I landed.

  I staggered to my feet just in time to see Andresson pull the trigger. I recognized the gun now. It was a .357 Magnum, a real penis pistol. A gun for men who liked to prove they were macho. It was stupid to try to outrun a bullet, but I threw myself off to the left in the faint hope that I could. The hammer hit the shell, the cylinder spun, but the gun didn’t fire.

  And an image of my pistol, barrel torn open like a blossoming flower, flashed across my mind. Back in anoth
er lifetime I had fired my pistol at the monsters attacking Rhiana. It hadn’t been good for the pistol, and there was way more magic flowing here. A desperate plan began to coalesce. My timing would have to be perfect, and the results would be fatal if I failed, but it was all I had. I began to back away from Andresson, but not too fast, and with not too much agility. The wounded bird leading a predator away from the nest.

  As I’d hoped, Andresson squeezed the trigger again. A look of frustration crossed his face when the gun again failed to fire. He charged at me. I showed him my heels, and ran like the proverbial bunny. I was beginning to get a feel about how much distance I needed to keep between his gun and my sword. When I’d reached it I abruptly stopped and spun back to face Andresson as the hammer fell for a third time. I was gasping. Each breath seared my throat and lungs. I had been lucky so far. I couldn’t keep this game up any longer. I just hoped that three unfired bullets would be enough.

  I couldn’t know with any certainty how close was close enough, but I would have to make my move before Andresson came into the field effect of the sword. My eyes flicked between Andresson’s face and each of the footsteps that brought him ever closer to me. He was swaggering now, and he said conversationally, “Thanks for sharing your little sweetie. A little old, but soft and warm where it counted.” I didn’t answer. I was staring intently at each step he took, measuring the distance, trying not to react too soon. “You just can’t keep any girl happy, can you? Oh, wait a minute, that’s ’cause you’re a fag.”

  I judged it to be the right moment. I took three running steps and threw myself in a long slide toward Andresson’s feet.

  “What the fuck!?” I heard him yell, and then came the sound I’d been waiting for, hoping for, and on which I’d bet my life.

  I heard the roar of three jammed cartridges exploding in the cylinder of the Magnum, and Andresson’s shrill screams of agony. Fragments of hot metal seared the exposed skin on the back of my neck, followed by the warm patter of blood. I rolled back onto my feet. Andresson’s face was bleeding from a myriad of small cuts, and his right hand looked like something from the butcher’s block, with fragments of white bone glinting through the blood.

  Andresson cradled his mangled hand. The black eyes that stared out at me through a mask of blood were those of a maddened animal. The hate and ferocity were so great that I took a step backward. That show of weakness was all it took. Andresson flung himself on me. We went over backward, and I hit the ground hard. I clung desperately to the sword, but my hand was slick with sweat and the hilt slipped through my fingers. The basso hum of the weapon was gone, and I felt cold and lost. Andresson was pressing his knees into my chest, and I felt my ribs creaking under the pressure. His good hand closed around my throat. Fortunately it was slippery with blood, and he only had the one hand, but red spots were dancing at the corners of my vision. I punched him hard in the face, but his grip didn’t lessen. It felt like I was fighting a berserker.

  I reached down and gripped the ruined hand and exerted all my strength in a bone-crushing squeeze. The bones really did crush. They shifted and slid and ground against each other. It was grotesque. Andresson howled in pain, and the pressure on my throat eased. I rolled sideways, and exalted because he was now beneath me. It didn’t last. He bucked like a desperate horse and threw me off. We were exchanging wild punches. Some of mine connected. Some of his hit. He was hurt, but I was exhausted from the strain of keeping the bike upright across that harsh countryside. And I was hampered by my own doubts and insecurities. I had always sucked at hand-to-hand combat.

  He ended up behind me, and was bending me backward over his knee. I was frantically trying to relax the muscles, bend and flex, but I knew that eventually he’d break my back.

  And then Eddie came hobbling up, swinging the pouch that held the lenses. He slammed it into the side of Andresson’s head, and the man fell to the side. I rolled away, and groaned as the muscles and tendons in my back went into a spasm. I was facing the gate, and what I saw made my gut clench in terror. The Old Ones were moving. With the power of the sword shuttered, they were moving in on the puny invaders.

  I managed to get to my feet and crabbed toward the hilt. Eddie was sobbing and beating Andresson around the head and shoulders. I could hear the lenses shattering.

  “You bastards! You fuckers! You monsters! You shits! You killed them!”

  Then I saw the knife in Andresson’s hand. It hurt like blazes, but I lunged the last few feet for the hilt, drew the sword, and drove the point through Andresson’s back just as the blade of his knife cut open Eddie’s sweater and shirt and left a long gash in his belly.

  “Oh, crap! Oh shit, that hurt!” Eddie wailed and clasped his hands against his stomach.

  I pulled the sword out of Andresson. He wasn’t dead, but he soon would be. The red sand was sucking thirstily at the blood that poured down his chest and back. I glanced toward the gate. The fogs and mists had drawn close again. The things were retreating, and the comforting thrum of the sword and the nimbus of light were back in place.

  I grabbed Eddie’s arm. “Let’s go!”

  And we started hobbling across the dell toward our companions, who were rushing to meet us, knocking aside the people with blows from nightsticks and knives. I was amazed to see my sister laying about with a nightstick like a Pinkerton beating striking steelworkers.

  Suddenly Eddie collapsed and nearly pulled me down with him. “My leg,” he moaned, and then I saw the long, deep gash that looked like it went to the bone. Adrenaline and rage had kept him going; now both were gone. I debated defending our position and waiting for the cavalry, but then I saw an enormous piece of granite breaking free of the cliff face. It bobbed in the air like a child’s balloon, and floated toward my friends and sister. If it hit, the cavalry was going to be a smear on the sand.

  I yanked Eddie onto my shoulder in a fireman’s carry and started running toward them. I didn’t have an actual plan, just the hope that the sword could stop the tons of rock heading toward them.

  A cloud of dust, choking and impenetrable, swept over us, carried on a blazing hot wind. The grains of sand burned where they struck bare skin, and it felt like it was trying to push me back. I’d never reach them in time, and they hadn’t seen the death coming their way. They were all way too focused on me. I tried yelling a warning, but my throat and mouth were Sahara dry, and when I parted my lips I felt the skin tear and I tasted blood. Eddie seemed to be getting heavier by the second.

  And then Cross was there. Coalescing out of the flying sand. Or maybe out of the mist, or … or … or … His abrupt arrival gave me a chill despite the scorching heat. Oily coils of color swirled around his body; he was well away from me, on the gate side of the mob. As I watched he threw back his head, his neck swelled, and inhuman screeching cries echoed against the cliffs—it might be language, but it couldn’t be interpreted by a human mind. I had heard these sounds once before—when he had challenged his doppelganger in my apartment back in Albuquerque. He was answered by the monsters at the gate.

  Cross’s body seemed to swell and shrink in time to some alien rhythm, and then the granite slab raced through the air toward the homeless god. He waved it past, and I watched in jaw-dropping amazement as he let it fall on the crowd of people turning to attack my people.

  Eddie and I reached our little outpost of sanity. Weber and Joseph lifted the scientist off my shoulder, and instead of relief it started to hurt worse. To my amazement Pamela threw her arms around me and hugged me tight.

  “What the hell are you doing out here?” I tried to keep the annoyance out of my voice, but wasn’t sure I’d succeeded.

  Sam’s pugnacious tone made it clear I hadn’t. “Helping you.”

  I couldn’t control it; my eyes flicked to where Rudi’s body lay on the sand. Sam seemed to fold in on herself.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” she said.

  I ignored her and said, “I told you to wait at the house. Did you find Angela?”


  Pamela’s face told me everything even before Weber spoke. “She’s dead.” Gentle in tone, but blunt and factual. It was how we were trained to deliver news of violent death to a victim’s family.

  My head swam for an instant. “How?” There was no quaver or anguish in my voice. I wondered how long I could maintain control.

  “Let’s just say it wasn’t easy. You don’t need details.”

  “Thanks for sharing your little sweetie.” I wished I could kill him again. I wished I could kill him slower. I wished none of it had been necessary. That I had protected her and kept her safe. I looked at each of them in turn—Pamela, Weber, Sam, Syd, and Joseph. I wasn’t going to fail them.

  Suddenly Cross came barreling into the center of us like a cue ball making the first break. He looked thin, gray, and haggard.

  “Okay, kiddies,” he said. “Party’s over. I’ve shot my wad, and they’ve still got many wads in reserve. We’ve got to get out of here.” He turned to me and gripped my shoulder with a veined and ropy hand. “You’ve got to fuck ’em up and give us time to retreat.”

  I looked to Weber and Joseph. “Is everything in place?”

  Weber nodded. “Yeah. I still don’t understand this plan.”

  “You need to read more Kipling. Now get going.”

  “I’m not leaving you out here alone,” Weber demurred.

  “I can concentrate better on what I have to do if I don’t have to worry about anybody else. Now go!” I suddenly grabbed Weber’s arm tightly. “Don’t leave her behind.”

  He knew who I meant. “Not a chance.”

  Pamela surprised me again by giving me another hug. I watched as they all started back toward the house. Their prog ress was painfully slow as Syd and Joseph supported Eddie between them. They disappeared among the bare trees.

  “What are you gonna do?” Cross asked. “The sword alone can’t cut it.”