Walking In the Midst of Fire rc-6

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  “You should get out of here,” Remy stated as the fires died down. “Wouldn’t want all your efforts to go to waste.”

  Gareth moved closer to the children.

  “You’re not like the others, are you?”

  Remy shook his head. “No . . . no, I’m not.” Now more than ever before.

  “That’s a good thing,” Gareth stated, lifting his arms as if to embrace his brothers and sisters. “But it’s also dangerous.”

  Remy understood exactly what Gareth meant, his final words echoing in the dwindling fire as the children left their past, on a journey to their future.

  “You be careful, Remy Chandler,” Gareth warned. “’Cause there might come a day when they’ll come for you.”

  * * *

  The fires eventually died, and Remy stood alone on the barren surface of the place once called Battleship Island.

  Nothing remained standing—nothing was left alive.

  The island had been scoured of life.

  For a brief instant he wondered what people would say when the condition of the island was discovered. How would they explain it? Bizarre atmospheric conditions resulting in multiple lightning strikes? A hidden pocket of methane gas beneath the surface of the former coal-mining facility suddenly igniting as a result of a particularly brutal storm?

  The wrath of God?

  Remy looked to the sky to see that the Archangel was still there, hovering over what he had wrought, looking down at Remy standing among the ashen remains.

  Their eyes touched and Remy once again heard Gareth’s words.

  “You be careful, Remy Chandler. . . .”

  And then the Archangel was gone, leaving behind only a distant rumble of thunder.

  A hint of a storm in the distance.

  A hint of a storm to come.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The early morning sun found its way beneath the drawn window shades, chasing away the darkness, gradually revealing the carnage that had occurred overnight.

  Mulvehill was propped against the living room wall, afraid to move, not sure of the extent of his injuries, fearing that even the slightest movement might reveal something he wasn’t prepared to deal with.

  He cautiously turned his head to the right to look at the still form that lay there as he searched for signs of movement—anything to show that his attacker might be alive.

  The body remained unnaturally still, but these days he could never be sure.

  The rising sun was slowly drawing back the curtains of night. He could see now that there was blood everywhere, spattering the walls and furniture.

  Covering his hands.

  Staccato images of the violence he’d been a part of appeared inside his head, causing him to gasp. He’d dove into the darkness of his living room, the muzzle flashes from his gun giving him an idea of where his target was.

  And what it was that he was facing.

  The light of dawn gave him the courage to look down again. His hands were black with blood, the foul coppery scent surprisingly enough to make his stomach rumble noisily as it wafted up into his nostrils. It seemed like forever since he’d pulled the Hungry-Man dinner from the microwave.

  Mulvehill carefully moved his fingers, waiting for pain but feeling only minor discomfort, and a tightening of the flesh where the dark blood had dried.

  The monster’s blood.

  In the blasts from his weapon he’d seen it: a pale-skinned monster dressed in a hooded cloak that seemed to be made from the darkness that filled the apartment. It had been coming toward him, closer and closer in the staccato flashes of gunfire. In one of its hands it was holding something, a weapon of some kind that appeared to be made from yellowed bone.

  And the monster had pointed it directly at him.

  Mulvehill felt his heart race, his breaths coming in short gasps. He forced himself to move. His shirt was covered in blood, both his own and foreign. He could feel the scratches on his arms, recalling with increasing clarity how the fight with his attacker had evolved.

  He’d fired his weapon more, but the monster had managed a shot or two at him.

  Mulvehill could still hear the odd sound, like a loud cough, as something spat at him.

  At full speed he had thrown himself to where he thought his attacker would be. He’d connected with the coffee table, sending himself sprawling to the floor and his firearm flying from his hand.

  He looked around to the patches of sunlight and saw the Glock where it had landed on the floor in the corner, beside the overturned coffee table.

  He was tempted to go for it, as he eyed the body that remained so very still beside him.

  Just in case.

  He remembered the feel of the rough fabric of the monster’s cloak as his fingers had closed around it. Holding on for dear life, he had pulled upon the clothing, dragging himself up on top of the monster, even as it had tried to escape him. He remembered the sound of the strange weapon, the blasts of fetid air that struck the walls of the living room with a force very much like the snap of a bullwhip.

  The monster had struggled to throw him off, but Mulvehill had known that to relinquish his hold was to give up his life. It was as simple as that.

  And he’d fought too hard of late to give up this life now.

  Mulvehill counted to three before tensing his muscles and sliding up the wall to stand upon trembling legs. He almost laughed aloud with relief when he realized that he was all right. Every inch of him ached and burned, but that was just his body reminding him that he was still alive.

  That he had survived.

  His eyes fell to the floor, and he saw that there were yellow pieces of bonelike material scattered about—the remains of his attacker’s weapon.

  There had been nothing graceful about their fight. It was a fight to the death, and it was ugly.

  The monster had been strong. Any pretense that Mulvehill had of being civilized was quickly thrown aside, and he allowed his survival instincts to usurp any civility. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to take his opponent down, and he did just that, arms and fists flying, never letting up.

  Things had become lost in a red haze, and he’d continued to deliver blow after blow, even long after his foe had ceased to move.

  Mulvehill looked down at his hands, flexing them to make a fist, and remembering the feeling as he’d pummeled the creature that had invaded his home—the feeling of its flesh ripping as he rained down blow after blow.

  The monster lay upon its stomach, its face hidden from him. He remembered the thing’s face in the flashes from his firing gun, and bent over with a moan of pain. His back was killing him.

  Grabbing a handful of its robe, Mulvehill turned the body over to look upon his attacker.

  Its appearance was even more disturbing in the light of morning.

  Nothing could look this way and not be a killer of some kind. Its flesh was pale and gray, the teeth jagged like a shark’s. It wore an expression of surprise, almost as if it could not believe that it had died by his hands.

  But it had.

  Hate bubbled up inside him as Mulvehill looked upon the thing that had wrecked his evening. Bringing up something thick and nasty from his throat, he spat upon the corpse.

  The beginning of a question sparked in his tired brain.

  Why? Why me?

  There was no reason other than the obvious: It had something to do with Remy.

  The monster had fallen upon the landline phone, and Mulvehill reached down to pick it up from the floor. He hit the preprogrammed number for Remy’s cell.

  “This is Remy Chandler,” the message began.

  Mulvehill waited for the beep, then started to unload.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’ve gotten me involved with now, Chandler, but something just tried to fucking kill me,” he said, feeling more tired than he had felt in his entire life.

  He leaned back against the wall for support.

  “It didn’t succeed, just in case you’re intereste
d.”

  * * *

  Remy walked through the doors of Rapture out onto the steps of the abandoned Prometheus Arms in Connecticut.

  He turned back, watching the slight shimmering of the air as the charnel house left him where he’d first arrived.

  He’d returned to Rapture from Gunkanjima to find Squire and Montagin saddled up to the bar, and the women who had left their jobs to be with their children already back to work as if nothing had happened.

  “Buy you a drink?” Squire had asked as he passed them.

  “No.”

  “I want to thank you,” Montagin began from behind him.

  Remy turned to look at the angel.

  “For all you did in trying to determine who killed the general,” Montagin finished, and raised his glass of scotch in a toast.

  It wasn’t much, but at least it was something to show that a creature such as Montagin could muster some gratitude. At this point, Remy would take whatever he could get.

  “See how much you feel like toasting me after you get your bill,” he said, continuing on across the bar to a table in the corner where a healing Prosper sat.

  “Remiel,” the angel said nervously. His face was still bandaged and bruised, but he appeared to be on the mend. “What can I do for you? Anything you want . . . on the house of course.”

  “How about a ride home?”

  The charnel house gone on to who knows where, he walked down the steps from the abandoned arms factory to where he remembered leaving Aszrus’ Ferrari.

  Remy was glad to see that the car was still where he’d left it. Fishing the key from his pocket, he unlocked the door, and leaned inside to flip open the glove compartment where he’d left his phone. Leaning atop the hood of the sports car, he checked his messages. Linda had called three times, and he listened to each of them. Hearing her voice made him smile. She’d just wanted to say hi, and ended each call by telling him that Marlowe was looking forward to him getting home, and that she loved him.

  Hearing something like that after all that he’d been through made all the difference in the world. It gave him a reason to go on; a reason to fight if indeed they ever did come for him.

  Remy was going to call Linda back, but saw the time and decided he might give her another hour or so to sleep before disturbing her. Mulvehill had left a message not long ago, so he hit the keypad to listen.

  His blood froze in his veins; the sound of his friend’s voice was chilling. Remy flexed the muscles in his shoulders, calling forth his wings, and was about to travel to Steven’s Somerville apartment when the last of his friend’s message struck a very specific chord.

  “Not sure who the hell you pissed off this time, but if they’re coming for me to get back at you . . .”

  The words slowly turned, and burrowed into Remy’s gray matter.

  “Ugly son of a bitch in a hooded cloak . . . used some kind of gun that looked like it was made from bones.”

  A Bone Master, Remy realized. He was confused for a moment, recalling that Prosper had called off the contract, but then he remembered.

  Prosper said that he hadn’t hired them.

  The Bone Masters were attempting to fulfill another contract, one that appeared to include his friends as well.

  And if they’d gone after Mulvehill . . .

  Complete panic almost overtook him, but he realized that he had to remain calm. Calling upon his wings, he wrapped himself within a cloak of feathers, picturing inside his head where he wanted to go.

  Where he needed to be.

  Remy appeared in the tiny backyard of his Pinckney Street brownstone, already on the move toward the back door. The door was locked, but that was not a worry. He destroyed the lock as he tore the door open and forced his way into the house.

  “Linda!” he called out, hoping that he’d find her terrified by the abruptness of his arrival, but safe. He could make up something to explain his worry later; he was good at things like that.

  But neither she nor Marlowe were there, and his panic started to grow. He raced around the home, searching for any signs that something might have . . .

  Remy forced the thought from his head.

  He reached into his pocket for his phone, and was about to call Linda’s cell when he heard sounds from the foyer. He dropped the phone and rushed to the door, opening it in time to see Linda and Marlowe coming into the entryway with a bag of groceries.

  “Hey you,” she said with a smile that nearly took his breath away. “Have you checked the mail?”

  She was turning toward the mailbox, Marlowe excitedly trying to get to him but restrained by his leash.

  “No. I just got in myself,” Remy answered. He was coming toward them when his eyes caught the hint of movement behind her. Something had entered with her, something that moved in such a way that normal eyes did not—could not—focus upon it.

  Something that moved silently, and with a deadly purpose.

  A shift in the makeup of his eyes made it possible for him to see the hooded Bone Master assassin as he flowed into the foyer, one arm disappearing within the folds of his cloak to emerge holding the yellowed, skeleton weapon that had once lived, but now delivered death.

  Marlowe reacted as Remy did, spinning toward the closing door as the Master took aim. Linda was still oblivious, opening the mailbox as death loomed behind her.

  She was Remy’s first concern. She needed to be out of harm’s way.

  But that would mean . . .

  There wasn’t any time for thought. If he was going to be successful, it had to happen. It was the only way.

  Remy’s wings exploded from his back as he leapt, carrying him over Linda and Marlowe to land directly in front of the assassin. He grabbed hold of the assassin’s wrist and twisted it violently to one side, causing the weapon to fire into the wall.

  “Get into the house!” Remy roared, allowing his voice to take on the characteristics of the divine. Some had described it as sounding like getting a message from God Himself.

  He could see the look in her eyes, first of awe, and then of fear. He could imagine the little explosions cascading across the surface of her brain as her perceptions of the world were brought to ruin.

  Remy didn’t want to be rough, but couldn’t risk her being hurt. He spun away from the attacker, grabbing her firmly by the shoulders and throwing her backward toward the still-open door to the brownstone. Her mouth was open in a scream, but no sound came out as he watched her fly through the air. The grocery bags tore in the scuffle, the contents spilling over the tile floor of the entryway.

  Marlowe’s bark boomed in the small confines, warning Remy that there was an intruder and that he would protect him.

  “Go be with Linda,” he managed to get out as he turned back toward the assassin, ready to rend the killer limb from limb for daring to put those he loved at risk.

  Divine fire formed in the palm of his hand, and he thrust it toward the Bone Master, who ducked, slipping beneath his arm, and worming his way around Remy. Remy lashed out with his wings, slashing the feathered appendages across the front of the Bone Master as he attempted to aim his weapon.

  Phutt! Phutt! Phutt! went the weapon of bone, projectiles of poisoned teeth hurtling their way toward their intended target. But Remy did not slow down, thrusting off with his wings and colliding with the Master’s midsection as the two of them hurtled back toward the open door into his home.

  The Bone Master was smashed with incredible force against the wall inside, the sound of broken plaster crumbling to the floor accompanying a grunt of pain.

  Lashing out, the assassin smashed the bony weapon across the bridge of Remy’s nose. His eyes filled with tears as he reared back and away.

  The Bone Master used the opportunity to dart to the side, flowing into the living room as he again took aim.

  Wiping the running fluids from his eyes to clear his vision, Remy attempted to take flight, but the low ceilings in the entryway limited his distance, and he found himself d
ropping back down as the assassin prepared to fire.

  There was a flash of black across the Bone Master’s path, and an ear-piercing cry sounded, the shot going astray.

  Remy saw in horror that Marlowe had attacked the assassin, taking hold of the would-be killer’s wrist in his powerful jaws, causing the assassin to lose his hold upon the weapon.

  Driven nearly insane by the attack upon his master, Marlowe held on to the demon’s limb, growling and shaking it savagely in all his animalistic fury. The Bone Master continued to cry out, withdrawing a nasty-looking blade from the folds of his cloak with his free hand.

  Remy was there, taking the demon’s wrist in a fiery grip.

  “I’ve got this, boy,” Remy told the dog, and Marlowe listened, releasing the assassin with a bark and stepping back to make sure that Linda, who cowered in the corner of the room, was all right.

  Remy didn’t want her to see this, but it wasn’t a time to be gentle.

  The demon fought against his hold even as his pale flesh caught fire, and the serrated dagger dropped from his grasp.

  But the Bone Master was not finished, driving his knee up into Remy’s stomach as he wriggled from the Seraphim’s clutches. Remy was surprised at the Master’s strength as the wind wheezed from his lungs.

  Dropping to the floor, the demon crawled upon all fours like some hideous insect toward where his bone gun had dropped.

  With a hand charred black from divine fire the Bone Master reached for the weapon, only to pull it back with a quick snap as a foot came down upon the gun, crushing it against the hardwood floor.

  Remy saw that Linda had left the safety of her hiding place to assist him, her eyes briefly touching his as she ground the weapon beneath the heel of her shoe.

  The Bone Master screamed as if in great physical pain. And still screaming, the demon grabbed Linda’s ankle, yanking her foot out from beneath her and sending her to the floor, her head bouncing off the hardwood, stunning her.

  The killer crawled atop her with a snarl, going for the knife that he’d dropped when his hand was set aflame. The weapon still burned, but that did not stop the assassin, as he retrieved the smoldering blade and prepared to cut the woman’s throat.