by TW Iain
The arc lights—and for them to burn through the trees so powerfully, that must be what they were—cast shadows all around, swirling in the storm, the bark and the leaves glistening with the rain.
And Brice stopped. Because the shadows were alive.
The creatures moved, hiding from the light. Rain coated their hides, and their claws glinted where they curled around branches. As Brice stared, he saw more and more of them. They stood behind trunks, and they balanced way above him. They were close, and they were far away.
There were more than he could count.
Brice might be invisible to them, but they still blocked his path to the Proteus. When he’d tried getting through to Tris, they’d thrown him to one side. They’d do the same—or worse—now.
But they were focused on the Proteus. That might mean there were fewer around the hold-out.
Brice sheathed his knife and crept through the undergrowth, keeping parallel with the multitude of creatures. Through the trees he could see the torch he’d fixed to the relay. It gave him something to aim for.
The solid mass of concrete grew as a monolith, an immovable darkness amongst the thrashing forest. It reminded Brice of a tomb, the light on top showing respect for the recently departed. It was no longer a place of sanctuary, but a lifeless void.
He thought of Cathal, and of Keelin and Ryann, trapped within those walls. He pictured them collapsed, taken over by the stench from Cathal’s wound. In his mind, their eyes were open but their chests were still.
And then he saw another light through the trees, part-way between the hold-out and the landing pad. A sharp cry of pain tore through the sibilance in the trees.
There were figures on the ramp. Two of them, with a third slumped between them. And then the figure closest to Brice slipped and fell.
Shadows crawled from the forest, filling the space between the ramp and the hold-out.
They pushed forward. The ones closest to the ramp smoked and burnt, but any that fell were held up by the ones behind.
Brice crept out, staying as far back as he could. He took a breath, and focused. The shadows swirled, but he saw limbs and heads, and they dissolved into individuals.
Four rows, about five creatures per row.
Twenty creatures. Any single one could take out a warth.
Had there been this many around Tris? He couldn’t recall. But he could remember striking one of them on the back of the head. He could recall how it staggered.
They weren’t invincible. Everything had a weak-spot.
And Brice was invisible.
His thumb stroked his last torch. He looked at the ramp. It was slippery with mud, but it wasn’t as steep as the one by the other landing pad.
He breathed deep, stilling his mind, and looked. Really looked. He needed to take everything in. He saw where Cathal’s blanket-bound body lay. He noticed how Ryann leaned in to Keelin, and how her left leg was stretched out more than her right. He saw how they each had two torches, and how Ryann moved hers smoothly while Keelin’s jerked constantly. He noted which creatures were closest to death, and saw where others remained in the shadows.
He calculated distances. He visualised the movements his muscles must make.
He didn’t make a decision. The situation dictated his actions.
Brice thumbed his torch to life. At the same time he screamed and ran.
He didn’t know if the creatures heard him, or sensed him at all, because he was on them too quickly. Light flashed, but he concentrated on the shadows.
Brice swung an arm, and it jarred when it struck, and a creature staggered. But Brice was already moving forward, barrelling into another creature, barging it out of the way. He used this to ricochet to one side, swinging out with his torch now. Rancid breath washed over him, and he ducked, then pushed upwards, his fist ploughing forwards. He saw the neck of another creature, the one directly in front of him, and he brought his fist down, as hard as he could.
The creature staggered and fell, tripping over the burning shield that slipped from its grasp.
The air tasted of overcooked flesh and decay, but also of sweat and adrenaline.
Brice saw the shape on the ground as he stepped onto the ramp. He dipped down, powering his legs forward at the same time. His body was off-balanced for a moment, but that was fine. That was what Brice wanted. He needed the momentum.
His hands pushed through the mud, and he scooped Cathal up. He tipped forward, but his left leg was ready, his boot slamming into the mud as his thigh pushed. Cathal rose, and Brice threw his right leg forward, bringing his knee up under Cathal’s body.
“I’ve got him,” he managed to shout at an open-mouthed Keelin. “You help Ryann.”
The blankets covering Cathal flapped against his legs with each powered thrust. Brice didn’t stop. He couldn’t. As soon as one boot came down, the other one rose. Even as his feet slipped back, he took another step, and another, and he gained ground. He gripped Cathal tight to his chest, ignoring the stench from his wound, ignoring the burn in his arms. He looked to the light that grew brighter with each step.
When he reached the end of the ramp, and his feet stopped sliding back, he turned. Ryann and Keelin were near the top, seated in the mud, pushing themselves backwards. That gave them the freedom of both hands, and four torch beams slashed across the creatures at the bottom of the ramp. The air was hazy, and the shrieks drowned out the storm.
Brice twisted his arm so that his torch joined theirs. They reached the top of the ramp and stood, supporting each other. No—Keelin supporting Ryann.
“Go! Get in the Proteus!”
Keelin nodded. They ran with a hopping gait, and Ryann cried out with every step. But they didn’t stop.
Brice ran by their side, Cathal tight to his chest, the blankets flailing. Brice squinted into the light, and maybe he saw an open hatch below the arcs. There was a shadow, and for a moment Brice thought the creatures were ahead of them. But this shadow danced with a couple of beams of light, and Brice knew it was a person.
And he recognised the stance, and the way the man moved.
Osker. Another grunt. Given the job of opening the hatch, while the rest of the crew sat inside in comfort.
Brice staggered, and Osker called out, something about hurrying up. But his voice was lost in the roar of the Proteus, and the deep boom of thunder that erupted suddenly, almost at the same moment the sky burst open.
Something caught under Brice’s foot, and Cathal’s weight lunged forwards. Brice held him tight, his body twisting. He hit the ground hard and rolled over, away from the bundle of blankets.
A voice yelled out a name.
The light was too bright, and Brice squinted again, shielding his eyes with an arm. He saw the blanket, and there was a hand protruding. As Brice watched, the skin started to bubble and blister.
He reached over, grabbing a corner of the blanket and throwing it over the hand, covering Cathal’s exposed flesh.
An animal shriek ripped through his head. Brice spun, pushing his feet under his body, and brought his torch round. A shape flew from the trees and landed on the landing pad. It crouched, then straightened up, arms outstretched.
Brice stood and yelled, taking a step forward. He aimed his beam at the beast’s head, and the orbs were lost in the brilliance. The creature writhed, arms flailing. It took a step back, and fell from the landing pad.
But others were jumping now. He saw them leave the trees and throw themselves onto the landing pad.
It was suicide, but only for the first to be struck by the light. The others used the smoldering bodies as shields, as they had done at the bottom of the ramp.
And the trees writhed.
A voice yelled warm breath into Brice’s ear. He turned. Keelin. She grabbed his arm and pulled, yelling again for him to get inside.
Her eyes darted behind him, and he instinctively swung his torch round, ducking at the same time. The claw sliced the air in front of
his face, and the creature’s fangs shone in the torch-light. It staggered, and Brice kicked out, as hard as he could. The thing fell, Keelin’s torchlight joining his as the creature writhed under a growing mist.
The cloying stink of burning flesh had never tasted so good.
“Come on!” Keelin yelled once more, and she pulled him away.
“Cathal!” he yelled, eyes darting around, trying to find the man.
“Osker’s got him.” Keelin pulled once more, then set off at a run. Brice looked up, and through the light he saw Oskar, out of the hatch, dragging a body. He had his hands under Cathal’s armpits, and he looked like he was about to throw up.
But he was the grunt. He did what was needed.
Brice ran after Keelin. He trod on cloth, and realised Cathal was unprotected.
“Get him covered!” he yelled, knowing nobody would hear. The growl from the Proteus’ engines increased as it prepared to pull away. Brice looked above the hatch, to the four arc-lights.
And there were shadows in the spaces between the arcs.
Through the pounding of the rain he heard creatures landing on metal.
“Get inside!” he yelled to Keelin. Ryann, already in the doorway, dragged Cathal in as Osker turned, waving his torches around.
And then one of the shadows dropped.
The creature grabbed Osker tightly, covering him like a shroud. It dipped its head, and Brice knew he saw fangs. Then Osker cried out, and something erupted from his neck.
The creature lifted its head, its skin bubbling, and red drool dripped from its mouth. It pulled Osker’s head to one side, opening the wound to an obscene angle. It lowered its mouth once more, Osker’s blood spraying into its throat.
Then it uttered a high-pitched scream as it threw its arms up and staggered back. Osker collapsed to the floor of the hatch, and Brice saw Keelin behind him, two torches held straight in front of her. She stepped towards the creature, and it jerked back. Its legs buckled and it fell, the scream fading.
Keelin took a step and kicked, sending the smoldering remains flying to the mud, and then she staggered, grabbing the Proteus. Brice bounded forward, arms open. He grabbed her, and his momentum carried them both into the craft.
They crashed to the ground, and Brice felt the Proteus shudder. The hatch door whined, high-pitched against the boom of the engines, and started to seal.
There was a thud from above. He looked up to see an arm reaching down, between the arc lights. Claws flexed, and the arm extended. But it was already too late. The hatch locked into place with a clunk. The limb hung for a while before falling to the floor.
There was no blood.
Keelin looked away, and Brice only now realised he held her tight, and she had her arms around him too. He couldn’t tell which of them was shaking. And on the floor beside them, in a slowly spreading dark pool, was a bloody mess that had once been Osker.
Off to one side lay Cathal, with Ryann by his side. She had a hand under the single blanket that covered his body. Her head was down and her eyes closed. She looked ready to collapse.
But it was over. They were safe.
Keelin pulled away from him, and stood. He watched her chest rise and fall as she took in deep breaths, and her mouth opened and closed wordlessly. She didn’t meet his eyes. Then she looked through the door and into the bridge.
“Nyle, get us the hell out of here,” she choked.
Brice just wanted to close his eyes and sleep.
But Brice didn’t close his eyes. He watched Keelin leave the cabin. She didn’t look back.
“Brice, do something with this mess.”
He turned to Ryann, but her attention was on Cathal, one hand under the blanket and the other on his forehead. Brice looked to the floor, from Cathal to Osker to the severed arm to the general untidiness of the whole place.
“Specifics?” he asked. He didn’t have the energy to use any more words.
“Cover Osker. Remove the arm. Tidy the place up a bit.” She tilted her head. “It’s not an order. Just a request. Please.”
She sounded disinterested, or maybe wary. But then her head turned from Cathal. “But don’t bother with the stores,” she said, firmly.
“Okay.” That seemed strange, but he didn’t want to go near the stores anyway. Units were open, clothing lay in untidy piles, and mugs adorned the table-top. In one of the storage units he saw an old blanket, muddy and rancid. Brice didn’t want to think about what might be under it.
He guessed the commander of this Proteus wasn’t as fastidious as Cathal.
There were cleaning supplies under the food prep area. He grabbed what he needed and set to work. At least it gave him something to do. It wasn’t as if Ryann was providing much in the way of conversation, and the door to the bridge was closed now. He might as well have been on his own.
He tried not to look at Osker, but those open, unmoving eyes seemed to follow Brice around the cabin. Every time he turned, he expected Osker to have moved.
Brice knew he was being ridiculous. The man was dead. He repeated that to himself, every time he saw the pool of blood and the gaping wound in his throat. The man was no longer alive, and there was nothing Brice could do about that. He’d watched the beast rip Osker’s flesh. He’d seen the look of horror on the man’s face as, surely, he realised this was the end.
He’d come to rescue Brice and the others, and he’d lost his life. He’d died following orders. He’d never see Haven again.
“Here,” Ryann said, and when Brice looked up she seemed distant and blurred. Everything did. She held a cloth out to him. He took it and wiped the moisture from his face. Maybe that was nothing but the rain.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Probably not,” he said, because it was easier to be honest. “But I’ll get my work done.” He tried to smile, and the muscles in his face felt stiff.
“Thank you.” Ryann managed a small smile, out of character but so very welcome. The hand under the blanket moved, like she was gently patting Cathal.
“How is he?” Brice asked.
“Alive.” Her voice was small, and she didn’t elaborate.
Brice moved to Osker, wrapping him in a sterile body-wrap. He never thought he’d have to do this for real. Training felt like a game now, or maybe a competition. It didn’t mean anything.
He moved the body—the person—carefully to one side, doing what he could to secure it—him—in place. Then he mopped, swirling red into pink, spreading the discoloured patch across the floor. The mop became dirty and congealed, and Brice wanted to open the hatch and throw it out.
Brice turned to the creature’s severed arm. He expected the leathery feel, but he wasn’t prepared for the coldness, not so soon after it had been removed from the body. He was sure there should be some residual warmth.
The floor around Osker—and Brice forced himself to think the man’s name, as painful as it was—had been blood-soaked, sticky and rich with a sickening coppery tang. But around the arm there was only a thin dribble of moisture, slightly viscous where he swirled it with his boot.
“They don’t bleed,” he said, more to push back the quiet than anything else.
“Apparently not.” Ryann was watching him now. “At least, not all the time.”
“And daylight kills them.” Brice recalled the charred remains of the one that had killed Osker. It was right that the beast had died for what it had done.
“They are…strange. Most interesting.”
Ryann’s tone was flat. She bent over the infected body of Cathal, yet she was acting like the creatures that had done this to him were to be studied rather than to be despised.
Maybe that was her way of coping.
Brice turned away, and looked to the corner of the cabin, by the hatch. He counted five torches in a pile, and only now realised that his own had gone, because it no longer dangled from his wrist. He didn’t even know if it was one of those five or not.
A couple of others rolled around the floor. He added them to the pile. They looked untidy, and he considered putting them away. But Ryann had told him to steer clear of the storage units.
“You finished?” Ryann said. Brice nodded, noticing how she, too, had been looking to the stores. “You want to go up front with the others?”
“You okay here on your own?” He knew she wasn’t making a suggestion, but it seemed wrong to leave.
“I’m not alone,” she said, her eyes now back on the blankets.
“Okay.” He supposed she was right. And if she wanted company she could always suss.
Brice took another look around the cabin. It felt familiar, yet so different to their own Proteus. Cathal would never have allowed Keelin’s baby to get in such a state. The mugs would have been cleaned straight after use, and clothes would have been stowed. And he definitely wouldn’t have allowed that blanket to stink the place up. It looked like it had been used to clean the floor, or like it had been dragged around outside.
With a lump in his throat, Brice made his way to the bridge, sealing the door behind him.
“Brice,” said the man in the pilot seat, and his face was familiar when he turned, although Brice recalled it with more colour.
“Nyle. Thanks.” What else could he say?
“Osker…you’ve taken care of him?”
When Keelin put a hand on the pilot’s arm, Brice expected Nyle to break down. But he took a deep breath and held Brice’s gaze.
“I’ve taken care of him,” Brice said. “At least the thing that did it to him is gone.”
“There is that.”
Nyle’s head shifted towards Keelin, and Brice knew they were sussing. And he realised how Nyle and Osker would have been in contact. Although Nyle had been in the bridge, he would’ve known what was happening outside.
He would’ve been with Osker as the man died. Another helpless observer. Another victim, simply following Kaiahive’s orders.
“How are you doing, Brice?” Keelin asked. He nodded, because he didn’t really know.
The Proteus shuddered and the light flickered.
“Storm’s not letting up,” Nyle said, then looked up. “At least it helped wash those things off the roof.”