by Scott Hale
The door to the room opened. Atticus shot up. His hands pawed around for weapons, but there were none. “Who’s that?” he snarled.
“Shush,” Gary said, coming in crouched, like he had a cramp. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m not.” Atticus moved his legs. They shed dried blood in their bending. “Where are we? Bedlam?”
“Rode in at sunset. It’s night now. Looks like they’re gearing up for their regular bacchanal. James is out doing reconnaissance. Got a contact from way back.” Gary shut the door, went to the bed, and started prodding Atticus’ legs. “You should be dead.”
“Technically, I am.”
“No, you’re not. Or you shouldn’t be.” The ghoul stuck his finger into one of the deeper holes, but Atticus kept quiet. “When we brought you back, we brought you back alive. That’s the way it works.”
“What went wrong?”
“Mr. Haemo had a hard time tracking you down in the Membrane. We used more ingredients than necessary. He added a few of his own. We were, well, I was desperate.”
“I haven’t had a need to eat or drink or sleep. Only reason I passed out was because of all that venom in me.”
Gary pulled out his finger and tasted it.
Atticus cringed but held his tongue.
“Everyone comes back different,” Gary went on. “They act like something’s gone or something’s suddenly so damn important. Apathetic, you know, or obsessive. They come back with a goal, usually.”
“I’m feeling a bit of both.” Atticus swung his legs over the side of the bed and contemplated standing.
“You should be dead,” Gary said, moving to stop Atticus, but stopping himself instead.
“And if I am?” His legs went rubbery and wide, yet they held. He sighed and took a step forward. A fire erupted across his muscles. Sheer stubbornness saw the flames doused. Again, he said, “And if I am?”
Gary rubbed at his side, hand disappearing entirely into his ribcage. “Even the dead can die, Atticus.”
He took another step forward, towards the bags. “And if I can’t?”
“You don’t want that.”
Atticus glanced down at the hole in his chest and wondered, if he looked hard enough, could he see his soul on the other side? Was it comfortable there in this reclaimed husk? Atticus rubbed his Corrupted arm. Death had made him thoughtful, philosophical. He hated it.
“You’re something in between.” Gary sounded despaired, as though he blamed himself for his friend’s condition. “I’d go through the motions, though. Eating, drinking, sleeping. You might be dying and not even know it. Or die out of nowhere.”
“Whatever it is, it’ll do.” Atticus’ face hardened, and he let hate have its way with him. “You keep bringing me back until it’s done. Clementine and Will won’t go to the Abyss. They’re stubborn, like me. They got to die right, Gary.”
“We could send you back. You all could walk off the edge together. Be done with it.”
Atticus didn’t much care for his rationality. He wanted revenge, and he wanted certainty. But most of all, he wanted purpose.
“We weren’t ready to die. I’ll not give in if there’s means to do otherwise. We slaughter the soldiers, and then we save my family. Where’s James? We’re finishing this tonight. I’ll not have this drawn out.”
Gary went ahead and started rummaging through their bags for weapons. “Your horse died.”
Atticus furrowed his brow. “I know,” he said. “What’re you getting at?”
“Remember its name?”
Atticus stared at the ghoul for a moment. He didn’t.
Bedlam was divided in two by the river that ran through it, and because of this division, those who lived there deemed it necessary to divide themselves as well. To the east of the river went the poor, and to the west of the river the less poor. When the people of Bedlam weren’t working in the woods or fishing in the streams—both of which were threatening to take the place over in the next ten years—they had turf wars. In the end, neither side really wanted to claim the other, but down home rivalry was as good a way as any to pass the time in a place where the hours moved like years.
Atticus and Gary leaned against the last standing Old World house in town. Above them, the moon hung large in the sky, leaving the dark silvery and gray. Midnight neared and still Bedlam bustled, its narrow streets filled with obnoxious youth and the generation that loathed them. The town records laid claim to three hundred and forty residents, but by the swell on the riverbank alone, it seemed double that.
The revelry wouldn’t last forever, Atticus knew. But until that sobering moment came, when all coin was wasted and all debts were renewed, Bedlam’s bedlam would provide the perfect cover for his kill.
“There’s James,” Atticus said, pointing at the figure crossing the bridge. The house howled behind him, still feeling the phantom pain from the shotgun blasts that had riddled its second floor ages ago.
Gary tightened the scarves across his face. “You did a shit job preparing for this.”
“If you want your bow, go get your bow,” Atticus said, who’d made him leave it behind to appear less obvious.
“I could be perched up on these rooftops, raining arrows on the wicked.”
“Our undead lord and savior.”
Gary smirked. “Don’t talk about the Hydra of Penance like that. Hey, did he always walk with a limp?”
“James?” Atticus squinted to have a better look at their spy, who was halfway across the bridge.
“Something…” Gary sniffed the air, turned in place to face the house, and then came back round. “What’s he looking at? Where’s that sword he’s so proud of?”
Again, Atticus squinted. It was true, the boy was unarmed. He slowly brought the machete out from behind him. “You told him we’d meet him here?”
“Yeah.” The ghoul took a deep breath, tongued it. “They’re close, or were here. One of them is, at least. The soldiers. I can smell them.”
“That’s a black eye.” James’ face looked swollen. His shirt was covered in blood. He walked stiffly, as though on a leash or by command. “Fistful of coins says they’re behind—”
An arrow tore through the air, goring Atticus’ shoulder and pinning him to the house. He gripped the shaft, blood spurting over his knuckles.
“Move your hands!” Gary broke the arrow in half. Taking Atticus’ arms, he pulled him off what remained of the shaft.
“Holy Child,” Atticus gasped. Pain curled inside him, like a palm closing shut.
James screamed and hobbled towards the end of the bridge, but the gawking crowd slowed him to a crawl.
A second arrow caught Atticus in his leg, slinging blood and leftover venom across the grass.
“Mother fucker!” He reached for the shaft. A third arrow sent him reeling as it hit him in the neck.
“Stop, stop,” Gary said. “The soldier doesn’t know. He thinks this will kill you.”
Atticus covered the bubbling wound and fell to the ground. He felt faint, sick. The archer had struck an artery. If ever there was a moment to die, then this was it.
“You’re fine,” Gary said, cheering him on. He knelt down, had a glance at the inquiring crowd. “See him?” He pointed across the river, where a dark shape jumped off a roof. “Let him in close. Play dead.”
Atticus’ teeth were bright red as he said, “I have to… know where the bodies are.”
“Can you fight?” Gary jumped to his feet. “It doesn’t hurt. You just know that it should.” He brought his knives out and shouldered his way to the bridge, to James.
Atticus had to look defeated, so like the defeated, he retreated, up the yard and through Old World house’s front door. It wouldn’t take much for the archer to find him. He’d left about a half a gallon of himself on the way inside.
Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die. Atticus stumbled into the foyer. He considered the stairs and turned left into the living room that had long since been stripped. There
, he collapsed beside the bay windows, and, with the machete across his lap, waited.
“Should’ve had a plan.” He stared at an outlet across the room, and wondered if the world would ever have the chance to use it again. Beside it, the words “Kelly Zdanowicz was here!” had been shakily carved.
“I’m sorry, Clem,” he said, his voice laced with lunacy. “Sorry, Will. Nothing’s ever simple with this simpleton.”
Outside, the crowd grew restless. He could hear someone pushing through the onlookers, drawing curses and gasps. It had to be one of the soldiers. They’d beaten James into bait and betrayal. He almost asked himself why they attacked him in broad moonlight, but, again, they were soldiers. His living was an affront to the absolute authority given to them by King Edgar in the Heartland. How dare he refuse their demands and then not die when told to.
“Is that you, Gravedigger?” Bon’s, not Blythe’s, voice echoed from the front of the house. “Did you come to your senses and have a nip of the veins? We stuck Brinton in the ground after we did you. Kept some for yourself, eh?”
The floorboards creaked as the soldier moved towards the living room. “Hope you brought some for tonight. Hope you brought a lot.”
A flash of purple flooded the blown-out bay windows. On the east side of Bedlam, fireworks exploded across the sky, raining diamonds of light onto the squalid houses below. In that brief moment, Bedlam was beautiful, and as rich as the people told themselves it could be.
“Can’t say they don’t put on a good party,” Bon’s voice boomed as he strolled into the living room. “About time we dispelled the distraction.”
The soldier from Eldrus stood in plainclothes, bow and quiver on his back. He wore a black leather glove on his right hand—the hand Clementine had cut off and he’d regrown. He walked right up to Atticus and crouched down, so that the two were inches away from one another. Bon glanced at the machete, smiled, and turned his attention to the windows. Tens of townsfolk had gathered outside to watch.
“You’re a tough son of a bitch,” Bon said. “Your… friend? Lover? That James boy. He is not.” He touched the tip of the machete and pointed it directly at his crotch. “Come for your revenge? I can appreciate that. You’ve earned it, but that don’t mean you’ll have it.”
“You’re from here, aren’t you?” Atticus coughed out bloody phlegm onto Bon’s doublet.
Bon smiled. When he smiled, he looked feral. His features stretched back, fitting to the shape of the monster he was underneath.
“You’ll bleed out soon, so we’ll talk.” He eyed the arrow in Atticus’ neck. “What gave me away?”
“Was just a guess.” Atticus closed his eyes, saw Clementine and Will there. “Did you have yourself stationed here on purpose?” He opened his eyes, saw Gary and James on the edge of the crowd.
In a flash, Bon grabbed Atticus’ wrist and wrenched the machete from his hand. “Bedlam can be better,” he said, throwing the blade across the room. He came to his feet and kicked Atticus hard. “They appreciate me. Admire what I am. Get, Gravedigger.”
Atticus struggled to stand, so Bon heaved him up and held him close. “How’d you do that with your hand?” He sniffed the soldier: he smelled too clean, as though he’d spent the better part of his life trying to scrub off the filth that formed it.
“You had your chance to learn, Gravedigger.” He pushed him back and turned him towards the foyer. “But we can still teach these idiots here in Bedlam something. And you’re going to help me do it.”
With an arrow aimed at his spine, Atticus let Bon lead him out of the Old World house and into the streets. A mob stood there in festival drab, shifting back and forth and murmuring amongst themselves. Twenty or thirty blocked the bridge, while even more stood in scattered pockets by homes and storefronts.
“What’s going on?”
“How is he alive?”
“That looks bad. What’d he do?”
Atticus tilted his head to squeeze out one more spurt of blood.
“Holy Child, that’s disgusting.”
“Don’t look at him. You know what he’ll do if he sees you looking at him.”
“James, get back.”
Atticus followed James and Gary as they melted into the crowd. Stay back, he thought. They can’t hurt me like they can hurt you.
More fireworks took to the sky, sending off a chain reaction of urchin-shaped lights. A few soldiers waited in the wings, swords drawn, watching as the local bully had his run of the schoolyard.
“Gather round, people, gather round,” Bon said. “Hold this, would you, Mary Lee?” He lowered his bow and handed it to a skinny woman on the street. “I know you’ve had your doubts, but let me show you what happens when you defy the king’s command.” He kicked Atticus onto the bridge. “Let’s make it crystal for you all.”
Torches blazed on both sides of the bridge, tiny cinder sprites circling the cracking flames. People parted as they approached. If Atticus listened hard enough, he swore he could hear Bon’s grin tearing across his face.
“Where’s their bodies?” Atticus asked softly.
Bon ignored him and continued to address the crowd. “Your King Edgar has promised all those who have enlisted a proper burial. Most of us are from the Heartland, people, you know that. Is it so wrong to want to be buried back where you came from? With your family or friends? No one wants to die hundreds of miles from home.”
Atticus couldn’t help but laugh as Bon spoke. Now that everyone was looking at him, he lost the delinquent, shit-kicker accent and replaced it with something more preacher-like. He was holding a sermon, holding himself up to be a shining example of what they could be. But Atticus had a look at his congregation, and he saw only blank faces and balled fists.
From somewhere amongst the masses: “Did the king promise you soldiers our livelihood, eh?”
And another, closer to the front: “We don’t need you here!”
Bon grabbed Atticus’ hands and held them tightly. “Yes, you do need us here. The Heartland is out of control. If it falls, we all fall. We are here to maintain order. God damn morons, don’t you see?” He snarled and whipped Atticus around to face the Old World house, where at least seventy stood. “This man is from Gallows. We brought him a body and he almost killed us when we asked him to bury it. You fight to fight, just to say you did.”
A woman shouted from the heart of the revelers, “What’s he doing here, then?”
“We are everywhere, and we are not going anywhere. He is an example of our reach.” Bon nodded at two soldiers. They pushed their way through the crowd to the woman who had challenged him. “Do as your king wills and we will be as good as invisible.”
“Good speech,” Atticus said, tipping his head back. “Where’s my family?”
Bon dropped Atticus’ hands. He slipped his right arm around Atticus’ throat. He took out a dagger hidden in the glove and pressed it to Atticus’ neck, into the arrow hole.
“Where are they?” he persisted.
“Where Blythe should’ve sent you.” He cleared his throat. “Resistance will not be granted the glory of a trial and the trappings of an execution.” He stuck the tip of the dagger into Atticus’ neck, drawing blood. “You will be gutted and left to rot in the street. Remember this, my people.”
“Couldn’t have just killed me quietly?” Atticus winced as the dagger went in deeper, pushing out a hot squirt of blood.
“Two birds, one stone,” Bon whispered. “I’m impressed you’re still standing.” He kissed the side of Atticus’ head. “Couldn’t have just let bygones be bygones?”
“Two birds,” Atticus said, turning his head towards the dagger, causing the blade to slip into his neck with ease.
Bon mumbled “What the fuck?” He ripped the dagger outward. Arterial spray sputtered out of the wound, like crimson sparks from one of Bedlam’s many fireworks. Atticus’ neck opened like a book and revealed its glistening pages.
A tremor of disbelief rocked the crowd. Atticus stoo
d there a moment, bleeding all over himself, to watch them. Some covered their mouths and shielded their children. Others looked to Bon and his brothers in arms, perhaps hoping for a fight or permission to start one. They were terrified, that much Atticus could tell, but it was more than that: they were curious; one hundred or so now stood before him.
Glancing back, he saw even more across the river. Bedlam was holding its breath, and had been ever since Eldrus arrived, and they were about to get the wrong impression they could breathe again.
Atticus spun around and grabbed Bon’s face. He twisted his neck and shot blood into his eye, blinding him. “Where’s my family? Where did you take their bodies?”
He kneed Bon. While he was doubled over, he brought him to one of the torches. “Where are they?” He held his head against the fire. “Tell me!”
“Stop, stop,” Bon screamed, swinging his arms and trying to make his body dead weight. “Help me, god damn it. Someone!” A flame licked his skin and singed his eyebrows. “Ah, god, please!”
Atticus glanced over his shoulder, where several soldiers stood, swords out, more concerned about the crowd around them than their comrade. They looked at Atticus, damning him and Bon for putting them in this position, and walked away.
“Just us,” Atticus said. His ears caught the sound of something. Footsteps; James was behind him. “And that boy, James. Now, quit your squirming.”
“Let’s see how you like it,” James said, grabbing Bon’s dagger off the ground. He came behind the soldier, took him by the loose of his shirt. He paused, smiled, and drove the dagger into his ass.
“Blythe,” Bon screamed, eyes wide, mouth agape. His legs gave out and he went forward, busting his lip against the torch’s center. He wailed and reeled, balked and begged as blood poured down his legs. He pawed at the dagger hilt-deep inside him, but every touch of the thing sent him into pained convulsions.
“Where’s Blythe?” Atticus ripped the torch from the bridge’s wall. Pushing Bon down until he was flat on the ground, he held the fire to his face and asked again. “Where is my family?”